No Love Too Great
by LePetitPappillon
Summary: Now he was knee deep in rain and knee deep in mud and knee deep in his twenties, intimidated by a door with the words 'Feliks Łukasiewicz' printed on it.
1. Chapter 1

It began with a grubby Polish newspaper. The print was cheap as shit and the letters were small, to save on paper. The ink came off on Toris' hands.

He noticed that if the paper was damp enough, the words could be smeared.

For a moment, the filthy little Lithuanian immigrant wondered just what the hell he was doing. Not just at that moment in time, but with his whole life in general.

Here his soggy boots were-caught in a rainy day in the center of Warsaw-occupying a place upon the side walk before a well kept (yet very grey) fashion boutique.

Yes. Because this is what all those years in school were spent doing. Learning three other languages to move to Poland and assist a fashion designer. Now he was knee deep in rain and knee deep in shit and knee deep in his twenties, intimidated by a door with the words 'Feliks Łukasiewicz' printed on it.

His lips were chapped too.

He began to lick them as the threshold opened.

"You've been standing on my sidewalk for the last couple of minutes, Kid." The man who had answered the imaginary knock was dressed in a black fur coat, with a fine purple shirt poking out under the collar. Ludicrous green eyes and a burning cigarette lighting up his pale oval-shaped face. Neat straw blond hair lapped at his well covered neck.

Lovely lips, plucked brows. Style.

"Oh, are you Feliks Łukasiewicz?"

Emeralds shot to the paper and set it to flame. "Yes, I am." Smoke rose from that puckered mouth. It didn't take long to notice how womanly this young man seemed to be. But what was to be expected? You didn't become the most renowned designer in all of Poland by appearing manly.

Suddenly, Toris felt rather stupid inside his damp green sweater and worn black pants.

"I suppose you've come for the job offer, haven't you?" Lips curled at the edges. "You should come inside before you get even wetter. It's miserable out."

"Yes-Thank you."

So Toris stepped into the shop, to be greeted by happy walls-striped vertically in a pattern of green and pink-as well as numerous garments placed upon the mannequins and hangers and in piles as well.

Compared to the outside of this building, the inside was a happy explosion of color-with flashy price tags and well-done stitches and all sorts of joyous accessories.

The guest to this off wonderland was taken in amazement.

"It's nice isn't it? I had to set up a wonderful headquarters. After all, a lot of people come in here with business and gown ideas to discuss. It's not a place that should be dreary. I'll say that much."

Ashes were flicked from the open window.

"Now then, I suppose I should interview you. Tell me, why should I give you this job?"

"Why should I be your assistant? Well, I'm great help, for one thing. I don't complain-I learn fast. Also, in the event that you have a customer that perhaps doesn't speak Polish well, I know three other languages. Lithuanian, German and English."

"How good is your German?"

"It's quite fluent, actually."

"That's the most important one." Smoke and ash. A deep breath. "If you can believe it, I have quite a few Nazis coming in here-not for their own tastes, but for their wives. Sometimes the women come in themselves, and sometimes the men send off the dresses as gifts to a faraway sweetheart. In either case, their Polish is rotten."

"Do you speak German, Mr. Łukasiewicz?"

"Of course, dear." Ashes cast from the window. "But it helps to have someone else around who does. Now, tell me about your other qualities."

"Well, I-" Gulp. Toris mentally beat himself over the head. "It really depends on what you need, sir. In all honesty, I don't know all the specifications of the job."

A sigh. A sigh and flying cigarette waste. "I put everything you need to know in the ad you're holding there. Do you know a lot about fashion?"

"In all honesty, no."

"Are you good with customers?"

"I'm very polite and patient."

"Can you carry large bolts of fabric?"

"Yes. I'm certain I can."

"Do you make a good friend?"

"I do make a good friend. I'm also a very loyal person."

"Are you Jewish?"

There was a pause at this question.

"Are you Jewish?" Puff. "Or a gypsy, or a homosexual for that matter?"

"No-no. I'm not any of those things."

"Are you sure? You know I can always check your identification card."

"Yes sir. I'm absolutely certain. If it's any concern-I am Lithuanian, but nothing else that would cause trouble."

"Lithuanian? Well, that explains the accent." The one in the deep coat walked nearer toward his possible assistant. The free hand caught the young man's chin. He looked him over. Green eyes touching green eyes, touching that ruined brown hair. Touching that honest face.

Feliks was sizing the poor thing up. Toris could feel it. Like an X-ray to a patient strapped against the operating table.

The designer had long nails. They were tapping at the immigrant's defenseless little chin.

"Are you going to be late?"

"No. Never."

"Can you start soon?"

"Immediately."

"Will you work hard?"

"Incredibly."

"Excellent. Be here tomorrow by eight. And don't stand outside my door either. You don't need an invitation." That strangely dainty hand pulled away and a few ashes from the cigarette were flicked onto the floor. "Be a dear and sweep that up, will you? If you have any questions, you can pop your head in."

And with that, the strange Polish man disappeared behind a bright yellow door-likely to write something or other down.

Toris picked up the remains of Mr. Łukasiewicz's cigarette and went back to his dreary little flat, even more soaked than he was beforehand.

Clothing for work was selected, as well as an umbrella.

After all, showing up sopping wet for the first day of a new job was moronic.

And Toris was no moron.


	2. Chapter 2

Toris opened that fine threshold at seven fifty-five that morning. His attire was sharp and his mind was even sharper- a mad blade ready to do its bidding.

Yes- the two men did make an off pair. And yes, this wasn't the occupation he had dreamt of, coming into Poland. But dear Toris decided to offer his entire heart to this place, to roll in its opportunity and take what was offered to him.

The little bell above the door rang out into the vacant room.

The Lithuanian immigrant took a moment to inspect the place a second time. It was polished and beautiful, the entire chamber shimmering in joyous hues and glisten.

It was certainly more cheerful than the last place the man had worked- an unhappy sweatshop of translation hell. Lithuanian to Polish. Polish to Lithuanian. Dark red brick. No windows. Flickering lights that mocked the eye and induced biting insanity.

Was it really such a surprise that the department had been closed down? Hard to pay your workers when basic electricity is a struggle.

Toris swore he had seen a rat in there once, tucked in a dreary corner-eating some important document.

A shudder ran up his spine.

"Oh, well look at that, Dear. You showed up. I guess you were serious, after all."

Today, Feliks Łukasiewicz was dressed in a fine top hat with a handsome suede overcoat, all the buttons fastened but the top three. A cigarette perched from his mouth-as one had the day before, and you could easily tell the man was feeling quite smooth this morning.

A daring pin-striped blouse poked its head out from beneath the top layer, accompanied by a loose but attractive pair of trousers.

They did not hug the leg. They caressed it.

Puff.

Puff.

"Sir, I've got no reason not to be serious."

A cool, slippery sort of grin. "Listen, Kid. You don't have to refer to me as 'Sir'. For Christ's sakes, you're my right hand man now." That hot roll of tobacco was waved around in Feliks' right hand, tucked between a middle and index finger. "I'm _Feliks_."

"Feliks…"

"The one and only." Smoke rising to the ceiling. Silk incense to the nonchalant Gods. "I suppose I should know your name."

"I'm Toris. Toris Lorinaitis."

"Cute name." Puff. "Well, let's get things squared away, shall we? First of all, I expect to see this place tidy. I'm sure you've noticed it's immaculate, so if you see a mess, I don't need to tell you to pick it up. Secondly, you're going to be doing most of the customer negotiations. So, those rich little Nazis are going to come to you with their silly little designs and you're going to write them down in _Polish_. Be polite too, but something tells me you're not going to have a problem with that. Thirdly, if you have any questions, you need to ask them. I move pretty quickly, so you'll spend a long time waiting for a pause. And lastly, don't be afraid of asking for a favor."

"Well…What else do I have to do?"

"Answer the phone, take notes, deal with my prissy little clients, keep the place organized, and don't agitate me."

"How about training?"

"It's an easy job."

"Did anyone else apply for it?"

"Sure. Lots of people did. But you got it, so shut that pretty mouth and do it."

Puff.

"Listen, I've got to create an outfit for a certain Elizaveta Edelstein; I'll be in my office. Come see me if something tragic happens, alright?"

"I've got a policy against tragedies. But I might have a question."

"Good to hear."

And with a cloud of stale cigarette smoke and a few slicks of classy leather boots, Feliks Łukasiewicz had vanished.

Toris stood in place, picking at those dry lips and trying to suck in consciousness.

It smelled like a burning cigar.

Timid green eyes took a look at the happy desk contained within the corner. The piece was almost a mix between a check-out counter and a private office. On one side a pile of fat papers sat, and upon the other, a register with a small mess of receipts at its flank. A telephone took its place there as well.

For a long few seconds, the Lithuanian wondered what he was to do. Nothing in particular needed to be organized. As Feliks had said, the entire place was immaculate. Not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere.

So what was there to do but wait?

Toris sat behind that strange desk and placed that lonesome chin within his lonesome palm. A stray sigh. A few thoughts dissolving in the gentle whisper from the clock poised upon the wall.

He brushed that golden-brown hair behind his ear.

And Toris waited.

Eventually, at about eight-thirty or so, a couple entered that welcoming door. A man and a woman who were both quite young and rather attractive.

The man caught his attention first- an average sized body clothed in a neatly pressed uniform. A bright red arm band. Dark black hair and baby blue eyes housed behind spectacles. He stood hesitantly in place, as though the poor thing was uncertain of what to do with his own presence.

It was almost as though this man wanted to blend in with the background, but was too handsome to do so. Toris could tell immediately that his personality did not agree with his face.

Of course, then there was the woman. A long haired super model, with the same sort of mad green eyes Mr. Łukasiewicz had. She was stunning, with a form fitting butter-cup yellow gown and a charming smile that ate up the heart of anyone unfortunate enough to play witness to her.

The female could have very well been the exact opposite of her company. She was a gorgeous creature and there were no qualms made of owning the hell out of that beauty.

They spoke to each other in quiet German.

Oh goodness; they were madly in love.

"Excuse me." The man spoke up politely. "Is Mr. Łukasiewicz in? My wife ordered a dress and she wanted to speak of the design." The words came in an accented Polish. He was clearly trying very hard to destroy those German sounds.

Toris thought it easier to simply use the man's mother tongue. "Yes, he is in at the moment. What are your names?"

"I'm Roderich Edelstein, and this is my wife, Elizaveta."

That was the second time the woman was referred to as his wife. They must have been newly married.

"Oh. Actually, I think he's working on the design at this moment. I'll fetch him for you."

But before any fetching could be done, the Polish man simply stuck his head out of the office and offered a smile of mischievous teeth. "I thought I heard familiar voices. My, my, my, don't you both look lovely today?" Feliks walked up to the couple, shaking either of their hands in an eager and friendly hello. There was a piece of paper within one of those clever palms- likely the sketch of whatever that lovely woman had requested. "Now then-look at this!"

Toris was right.

"Oh wow. It's really lovely Feliks. I love how it falls here."

"I thought you would! I can honestly see you wearing something like that. Now, have you decided on the color yet?"

"Well…"

"We were considering something maybe in red or orange. Unless you've changed your mind, Elizaveta."

The woman did not say anything. Plump lips simply scrunched together and worked themselves into a grin.

"Oh, Darling. You wouldn't stop talking about how you wanted a red dress last night."

"Roderich, I just feel I have too many red dresses. I mean- I have one that looks at least _somewhat_ similar to this one. Maybe I should try another color- like pink or purple. Maybe even something with a pattern."

"Well. I just want you to be happy."

"Don't you even say that to me, Love. You're too sweet."

Feliks interrupted. "I have plenty of examples I could show you. I've got just about every color under the sun, so I'm sure I can find something you like."

"That sounds wonderful." Elizaveta's hand stole her husband's.

So they all went to observe that lovely world of examples, Toris following loosely behind. He looked on as the pair had their little discussion of all the hues Feliks had pulled from his office. Elizaveta's hands ran over each of those squares of material, as though this was the most important decision she was to make all day.

Finally, she selected a unique orange color- a bright and joyous tint with a near neon sort of flair.

The number upon the back of the fabric was written down upon the top of the sketch, and the business was done.

And Roderich and Elizaveta left.

Feliks stuck another cigarette into his mouth as soon as they were gone.

"For being Nazis, they didn't seem too bad."

"Well, no. Roderich is a very nice man. I honestly don't think he wanted this life for himself."

"Well, what makes you say that, Mr. Łukasiewicz?"

"_Feliks._ And I say that because you can plainly see it in his eyes. He doesn't want to be in Poland, or wear the uniform or _invade_ a damn thing. It really seems to me like he'd rather be at home- In Austria, playing his piano for that darling wife of his. They've indicated all of that through past conversations."

"I see."

"Anyway, the next time a special order comes in; you'll have to do that. I have to get down to the basement and start working on that dress…"

"But Feliks, don't you have a factory somewhere?"

"Of course I do, Toris." A breathe of smoke. "I need something to do, don't I? Besides, no one can sew like I can. They come in here, so _I'll _make the dress. Not one of my numerous Jewish factory workers."

"Oh."

"Yes, _oh_. Now listen." Feliks waved his hand around, tobacco moving like a sparkler. "I need you to take care of this place. I'll be gone for the next few hours or so. You can use a register, can't you?"

"Yes."

"Good. Do you see that pile of sketches there? When a customer comes in looking for a customized dress, or what have you-check in there. The names are written in the top right corner. Many of the designs need to be examined and colors need to be picked out. I left the fabrics on the desk for that reason. Is that all clear?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Oh, for the love of God, Kid." Puff. "I'm Feliks. _Feliks_. It doesn't matter what the pretty golden lettering on the door says. I'm _Feliks._"

"Feliks."

"Thank you." The blond man took a breath. "Now then, I'm going into the basement. If you need me, which I hope you don't, you can just take a little trip down there and fetch me, alright?"

"Alright."

"Good. I'll see you sometime this afternoon."

Then, Feliks took the door to that petit room of his and disappeared. And Toris wondered what exactly he had gotten himself into. But it would be alright. At least, he hoped it would.


	3. Chapter 3

So Toris worked.

He worked every day from eight in the morning to whenever Feliks told him to go away.

It was difficult to predict what the moody Polish creature would say. Some days, the man just locked himself away within the basement- a workroom used for clothing construction- and some days, he was more social, coming out to greet customers with a ripe cigarette smoking away and plenty of words to go along with it.

In either case, much of the planning was left to Toris. The phone rang frequently. People called in Polish and German and once even in Lithuanian- all for specific clothing orders.

These requests were never really normal either.

One woman called up, with a request for a loose white shirt, frills coming out of every orifice of the damn thing, with a bright red leather belt to tie around the entire affair.

And Toris had to write all of this down.

He found the stupidest questions coming from his mouth.

"Large Polka dots or small polka dots?"

"How many pockets? Eight?"

"_Can I have this delivered by tomorrow?_"

"Would matching rain boots be an option? I'll ask Mr. Łukasiewicz." Then, from the background, "It's _Feliks_."

Toris certainly could not fault it for being interesting-this strange job of his. But what was even stranger was why Feliks had hired _him_ of all people.

The immigrant walked through the front door certain he would be sent away. He didn't know a thing about fashion; he had barely been _anyone's _assistant; he had only a fraction of Feliks' bright pink charisma.

So why him?

It seemed off. There must have been a thousand well dressed Polish men willing to steal this position, so the fact that he was selected left him somewhat dumbstruck.

And it wasn't as though Toris was complaining; the situation merely left him perplexed.

One day, after about a week of work or so, Feliks removed himself from that dungeon of poor-lighting and stock fabric. And placed a glass bottle of cola upon Toris' unkempt desk.

It was cold too. One could tell, because when the cap popped off, an attractive breath of escaping fume rose into the air.

"How has the sewing been coming?"

"Oh, it's been fine, Dear." Feliks opened another bottle and drank a good portion of it down. "Take a sip. You've earned it."

"Thank you." And sip Toris did. "Feliks, can I ask you something?"

"Of course. What is it?"

"Why did you hire me?"

Half of that bottle was gone. "Why? Why are you asking?"

"Well. I want to know. I've thought about it- and you're probably one of the most famous fashion designers in Warsaw right now. I find it odd that I just walked in and you hired me. I mean- there's usually a hierarchy to these things. Like, well, aren't there people who have worked for you a long time? You've got a few factories, and factories have managers, and-"

"Hon, stop talking." That wonderful liquid drained from Feliks' drink and the empty container was set upon the assistant's desk. A small sip was taken from Toris', and the boss continued to speak. "First of all, I never keep employees for very long. Many of my factory workers, if not all of them, are Jewish. So, they run away; they get shot. They're unaccounted for. Trust me; I wouldn't pick one of them to be my assistant. Secondly, it's hard to find someone in Poland that speaks German and actually wants to work with Nazis. Well- maybe you don't _want_ to work with them, but you were desperate. I could tell. Thirdly, I figured you would be an excellent employee. You're responsible, you don't complain; you're organized, and you do what you're told without being an enormous pain in my ass. You take down the orders- you bring them to me- it's all very simple. I like you, Kid. I have a feeling I'm not going to have to can you for a while."

"Well. I don't know anything about fashion."

"No. But do you honestly have to? People tell you what _they_ want. The only one who has to know a damn thing about clothing is _me_. Not you; not even the customer. Just me. When you make enough custom outfits, you get to know what people _really_ want. They say they want one thing, but what they really want is something completely different. You should have heard what Elizaveta ordered the first time. The description would have looked nothing like the sketch. But I know what she actually wanted, the poor woman just didn't know how to say it. You're really just my handy-dandy middle man, Dear. But you're completely necessary. I can't do all these jobs by myself. I'm sure you can understand that. You're quite busy, aren't you?"

"Yes…It's a lot to keep up with. The phone rings so frequently, and so many customers come in."

"Alright, well. Imagine doing your job _and_ mine. Sew them after you design them, after hearing a bitchy German woman's demands all day. Although, I might have shot myself in my classy designer boot, because now that you're here- running the place so efficiently and all-more and more people have been ordering garments. But it's not a bad thing-to have good business in such dark times. I'm doing what I love, even if I have to tolerate people I don't."

Another sip from Toris' cola.

"Well, I have to get back to sewing now. Into the dungeon I go, bearing silver needle and golden thread. If only I had some magical elves to do all this work for me." A wink.

"Can I come with you?"

"Oh, you want to come into my merry little sweat shop? You should go get your head examined."

"No, truly. I do. Maybe it would seem less like a sweat shop if you actually had someone to speak with."

"Well, you're welcome to come along, Toris. Whatever you like."

So either of those men went into the basement, a place Toris had only gotten glimpses of. The blond placed himself at the sewing machine mounted in the center of the chamber, beginning work at a grand mess of wrinkled fabric beneath the needle.

For a moment, Toris was astounded that a bolt of material could be transformed into a dress, or a blouse, or even a pair of trousers. That four hour's time and a man working diligently with his foot petal and tired fingers could take stubborn cloth and weave it into a robe fit for a princess.

He certainly couldn't do such a thing.

Not even after numerous years of training.

No, one had to have a special skill. It wasn't the something a person could simply acquire after a certain amount of time. One had to be an _artist_.

And now, it made so much sense- why these silly Germans and wealthy Polish were paying such staggering amounts to have this man make them an article of clothing. No one could sew like Feliks could.

He was the master. A child can be told how to paint and draw and blend colors and forge lines. But that doesn't make the work of art a masterpiece. It requires both experience and the passion of someone who genuinely _loved_ their trade.

And that was what Feliks Łukasiewicz had. Even though he was a slave to this basement- brimming wall to wall with rows of gorgeous fabric- the end result was pure magic. The bearer of the gown would be wearing a grand piece of high art. They would be wearing work made by Picasso, Da Vinci, Van Gogh.

Suddenly, an all new respect washed over Toris.

He admired Feliks heavily within that moment.

A pride came, with standing inside that hot room, watching the man work between cool sips of refreshing soda.

"Thank you, Feliks."

"For what, dear?"

"For hiring me."

"Well, thanks for being a good assistant. You proved me right."

Toris put on a grin.


	4. Chapter 4

Toris came to work that day in something of a daze. His green eyes were unfocused and did not pay attention to one thing in particular.

The little beads of sweat and worry seemed to leave his brow as well. The last few days had been difficult on his nerves. Had he done something wrong? Was he doing his job well? How angry could an angry Feliks be?

But Toris was never yelled at or scolded or anything else. No, that fashionable Polish man seemed to be completely content with him, and that was not a bad thing.

The Lithuanian came into the shop to find Feliks there, as usual. Today, he was in a good mood. Toris could tell because the feminine man was wrapped up in pink, with a grey pair of trousers and a red blouse shoved beneath that strange coat.

And he was smoking a cigarette.

But he always did that.

"Hello, dear. How was the walk over?"

"It was fine. The cooler air is brisk. I know some people don't like it, but I don't mind."

"Well, that's excellent." Puff. "I'm doing fairly well today. I stayed in a little later yesterday and finished one of more complex commissions. It's in the dungeon, if you want to have a look." The roll's end burned bright red, and then turned dark grey. "Can I entrust you to the shop today?"

"Well, I'll do my best Feliks. Do you have to run any errands?"

"Yes. I do. And I'm really glad you're here, because on any other day I would have to close the store until I returned."

"Am I allowed to ask what you have to do?"

"Well, I like to go inspect my factories. If I can, that is. One is right here in Warsaw, and I have another a little further away. The others, unfortunately, are beyond my reach."

"Oh, I see."

A brief black cloud rose to the ceiling. "I also have to pick up and drop off some dry cleaning and I'm due for a haircut. It's a busy day, let's just say that."

"Feliks, I don't think you need a haircut. Your hair looks just fine."

"Oh, it's just a trim. And I do need one. Look at these split ends." A bit of that light blond plethora was captured and the ends were placed beneath well-kept fingers. "What do you know anyway? I bet you haven't had a hair cut in years."

"Well…"

Feliks smiled. And the cigarette was extinguished on the floor, beneath his fine leather loafer. "Be a darling and pick that up, will you? He walked forward, taking up a few plastic bags full of clothes near the door. "I'll see if I get back before seven. If not, you can close the place by then."

"Oh, alright."

"Good-bye, Toris. And Good luck."

The bell rang above the door, and that beast soaked in number seven pink left.

And Toris picked up his cigarette.

With a sigh.

No wonder why Feliks was in such a good mood. He got to take the day off. Sure, the factories needed to be 'inspected', but how long would that honestly take? Feliks didn't seem to be the type to pick at every little employee or raise hell for a small mistake. In fact, despite his eccentric nature, he was not a strict boss. He barely corrected his so called 'right hand man'. He even demanded to be referred to by first name.

Feliks didn't seem like he owned a long line of fashion. Much less ran such an enormous business. It was amazing he had time for sewing at all; taking on the wants and demands of numerous German women.

Toris took in a breath.

It was a moment where _he_ could use a cigarette. What the hell was Feliks so stressed out about that he constantly needed tobacco? It hardly seemed fair.

So Toris sucked it up, like the responsible young man he was, and took phone calls and wrote down measurements and colors and possible appointment dates. He answered and sold them some of the most fantastic garments that were for sale. He helped as they tried them on and held them up to their bodies and avoided the filthy looks their husbands gave. (If the husbands weren't beaten down and miserable from a long day of shopping and nagging.)

Then, two gentlemen came into the shop wearing handsome S.S. uniforms and light blond hair.

Actually, one of their scalps was so blond, it was nearly platinum.

"Hello, can I help you?" Toris sounded somewhat nervous, even though he didn't mean to. His German was even off.

"Oh, look at that, Ludwig, he speaks our language! Thank _Christ_. I thought I was going to have to talk in Fucking Polish again. Last time I almost broke a goddamn blood vessel."

"Yes, Gilbert. That's wonderful. Can we please get to the business at hand so the day moves faster? This is only the second place on the list-"

The shorter yawned. "What were you saying now? Sorry. I was going to sleep." But before the taller could answer, Gilbert kept right on speaking. "Is someone named 'Feliks Łukasiewicz' here?"

He butchered the pronunciation.

"No, actually. He had to go run some errands. But he should be back tomorrow." Toris looked over either of them. The one named Ludwig was the perfect Nazi. He was large and filled his uniform with muscles, and decorated with straw blond hair and sapphire blue eyes. His face was well shaped and handsome.

Hitler would be proud.

Gilbert on the other hand, seemed quite the opposite. While his counterpart was serious and disciplined, he was advantageous and perhaps even somewhat obnoxious. Gilbert seemed like the kind of person to laugh at his own jokes, even when they were terribly stale, and made no qualms of speaking up or starting a fight.

He had the snow white, rough bangs and eyes so brown they were nearly burnt red.

Ha. A Nazi with evil crimson eyes. How fitting.

"Well, if you aren't Mr. Łukasiewicz, then who are you?"

"I'm Toris Lorinaitis. I'm Feliks' assistant- I'm sorry; Mr. Łukasiewicz."

"I see." Ludwig wrote something down on a pad of paper. And that made Toris entirely uneasy. "How long have you been working here, then? We've never seen you before."

"Oh, Only about a week or so. Not a very long time."

"And did you know Mr. Łukasiewicz beforehand? Were you friends or even just acquaintances?"

"No. I was looking for a job and I saw his add in the paper. We had a brief interview, and he hired me."

There was a moment of silence that sat about the air as a blizzard. The largest of the pair spent a very long time taking notes on that one.

A bead of sweat gathered at the Lithuanian's neck.

"Does Mr. Łukasiewicz have any strange behaviors?"

"Strange?"

"Anything you would consider abnormal?"

"No, not really. I mean- he smokes almost all the time, but everyone had an addiction. Other than that- there's really not much that comes to mind."

"I see. Thank you." Ludwig put the book away and glanced to the opposite, who did not have much bearing on the interview. Although, it felt more like an interrogation. "Gilbert, do you have any questions?"

"What? Oh. I do. Has a certain Elizaveta Edelstein come into the store?"

"Yes, she has."

"Well, how has she been? Does she seem happy?"

"Yes. She was quite cheerful the last time I saw her."

A singular nod and the two intruders looked to one another.

"We'll be leaving now. Have a lovely day."

Something told Toris that Ludwig did not mean that at all.

A few seconds later, the men had left.

It was strange, because Nazis weren't supposed to make 'friendly' visits. Something had to be wrong, unless they were simply trying to establish the man as some kind of character. Perhaps it was due to all the Jews he employed. That seemed likely.

The rest of the day commenced normally, and Toris closed the shop and seven. There was no sign of Feliks.


	5. Chapter 5

Another day passed without any disturbance from Ludwig or Gilbert. Toris did not bring it up, as Feliks was too busy that day to deal with any extra nonsense and the Lithuanian was quite occupied himself.

On top of that, Feliks seemed to be in a bad mood; something was bothering him deeply, but there was a great attempt not to let it show. It was obvious only in his slightly knitted brows and the fact that he smoked twice as many cigarettes.

There was one point when Feliks stood outside for a good ten minutes and smoked. The cold air was refreshing. The blond man looked as though he was trying very hard to breathe deeply and calmly- as if he was hiding panic for the entire day before hand.

And for some reason, Feliks looked intensely beautiful. His deep green eyes were caked in emotion and that usually pleased mouth had been dented into a frown.

Toris could make him cry, if he felt like being cruel.

But Toris didn't feel like being cruel. Toris simply worried for what was essentially his only friend.

However, there was no opportunity to actually ask what was the matter. Feliks came directly in and went back to his terrible dungeon, to continue making dresses and wearing out his strangely dainty fingers.

Eventually, night came.

And Toris went to the basement, finding his boss there with burning eyes and a puffy red complexion.

"Hello, Feliks."

"Hello, Toris." All his enthusiasm was gone. It seemed as though his flamboyancy had been paralyzed.

"Are you alright?"

"No. Not really." The Polish man's nose was wiped with the back of his hand. "I found out that one of my employees was shot." Another line of stitches into the fabric.

Feliks was making a pair of pants.

"He told me that he wanted to get out. It wasn't like he went around telling everyone that either…The man confided in me, and how he's dead." A dry sniff. A breath. "I can't help but feel somewhat responsible."

"What makes you say that, Feliks? It's not as though you turned him in. You didn't, did you?"

"No. Of course not. But he was hard worker. And I was his boss. It simply feels like I should have been able to do something to help. Inactivity is just as bad as pulling the trigger, I think."

"Well, Feliks. You can't save everyone. This is the reality of our situation. This is why the Nazis are so hated. They don't have sympathy. They're killing machines. And not all of us are lucky enough to be Aryan with blond hair and blue eyes. Sometimes, there's just nothing you can do."

"I know." Feliks' eyes filled up with tears. "I know, but he was so goddamn close. If he would have just left, then-" Gasp. "He was a good man, really."

Toris said nothing.

What was there to say?

Feliks pulled himself together. "I have to keep sewing."

"Who are you making those for?"

"No one important, really. It's for a young man who just had a birthday. He wanted handsome trousers."

"I see."

Silence came and remained; an unwelcome visitor in an extremely tense room. Silence filled up all the space. It pushed against the walls and weighed upon the floorboards. It gave both men black eyes and swollen lips. Silence took over the room.

Then, Silence was shot in the forehead.

Suddenly, screams were heard coming in from outside. They were dull, sound traveling through walls and floorboards and concrete. Whoever had produced the sound had produced it _loudly_.

Then came the loud pop of gunshots. There were at least ten of them before it was over, and the hollers had faded. And the silence returned.

Feliks was weeping. "Stay here-" Gasp. "Just stay here for a while. It's not safe to go out now."

"Right."

So Toris lingered while Feliks tried to contain his stray howls. That blond man was punching himself in the stomach for something that wasn't his fault.

About fifteen minutes later, Toris left his boss and went outside to find four dead bodies, lying in stagnant pools of sticky crimson blood. It lit up the sidewalk, the roads, and had a disgusting shine to it. There would be stains in the asphalt. Stains accompanying all the other puddles of dried red that lines the street.

Times like this made it difficult to ignore the grave situation that was Poland.

Toris almost understood how Feliks could weep.

The out of place Lithuanian went home.


	6. Chapter 6

Toris came to work that day, walking past the dried puddles of blood, and wondering who had come to pick up the bodies that lied there only last night.

It still disturbed him, considering he had witnessed the bodies while they were still warm and watched as more of their essence poured into the asphalt. In truth, the man couldn't sleep last night. What sleep he did receive was lined with night mares and subconscious terror.

He came into the shop, and he found Feliks speaking to Ludwig and Gilbert.

And they were laughing.

"Oh well, you know how it goes. There's so goddamn many of them, who could possibly keep track? They ran away somewhere; they get shot. It's such a mess. I only hire them because it's cheaper. Besides, no right minded Aryan would shove themselves in my sweat shop until their fingers bled. They would have to be stupid or just _desperate_. You wouldn't work for me, would you, Ludwig?"

"Not if I had a choice."

"You see? Anyway, I haven't seen him. I'm sorry I can't be of anymore help."

"No, that's quite alright." Ludwig was scribbling more down in his book, a mad man with a wild ink pen. It was obvious that he did this frequently; the pages filled up without much time. "Thank you, Mr. Łukasiewicz. We might be back in the event that another one of your employees goes missing, but until then, we'll be leaving you alone."

"Well, feel free to come back if you want a nice outfit. My doors are always open, and by always I mean Monday through Saturday, eight to seven."

Laughter.

"Well, have a nice day, Mr. Łukasiewicz."

"Of course." Good-byes were said and Nazis went through the front door, leaving with notepads full of information and a lack of suspicion. Or perhaps they went even more suspicious. Who could say?

Either way, Toris was entirely dumbfounded.

Here was a man who, last night, was sobbing and blaming himself for the death of a Jewish employee, and there he was, sharing friendly conversation with killing machines and acting as though yesterday had not occurred.

He was quite alright, in fact.

What? Did Feliks regard his employees as pets? Yes, it's certainly sad when the dog runs away but he's not equal. The animal certainly doesn't deserve a fine mess or its own bed, but it's certainly sad to watch death come.

Before Toris could even lift up his bottom lip, Feliks was running back into the basement, likely to go and stitch up another outrageous dress.

But he usually said hello.

He _at least_ said hello.

Something was wrong here.

Even if something was indeed wrong, there was still a kind of rage that sat within the Lithuanian's stomach. Yes. There was a need to negotiate with the Nazis. You couldn't go around, spitting in their faces. But to say what he had said-

It was selling your soul.

Perhaps Feliks truly believed those things.

Was Toris hallucinating?

He very well could have been.

Maybe he was still in Lithuania, laying under a mass of homemade quilts while his roommate hovered over him. Had he fallen into a coma?

If not, this was one hell of a fever.

And like a fever dream, the day progressed in an odd sort of haze, with Toris' frustration and dull anger building. Yes. He knew it was ridiculous to be so upset, and over something he had no control of. But a misunderstanding did not ease the sentiment. Understanding it would not make it leave.

Because for some reason, Toris felt betrayed, as though he had been lied to by his only friend.

It made him feel unimportant, not knowing what the hell was happening. And perhaps he _was _unimportant, but no one wants to feel that way.

So after an entire day of arguing with himself, Toris finally saw Feliks emerge from the dungeon at about seven o' clock.

And the words came before he could pull them back and capture them within his throat.

"How could you?"

"Excuse me?" Feliks gave a sharp response. Sharp as a dagger's blade.

Toris managed to find his balls. "I said, _how could you?_"

"'How could I'? You don't know the half of it!" Feliks came and slapped his palms upon Toris' desk, staring right into his eyes. "Let me tell you something, Kid. If you don't fake a few opinions and play nice, you die. We're dealing with monsters and liars and back stabbers. And if you can't convince them that you're a liar and a back stabber and the same kind of monster _they_ are, you might as well just go and shoot yourself. Make it easy, because there's no real point in struggling."

"I know, Feliks! But did you really have to say those things? You made them sound like a pack of dogs you had to take care of!"

"_Lower your voice!_"

The boom shut Toris up.

"You don't seem to understand my situation, Toris. This place is under heavy surveillance already. They come here at least once a week to search through my garbage. The basement just went under inspection, because they honestly believe I'm hiding my employees. On top of that, I've been accused of being a homosexual. So if you think I'm not going to swallow my pride and pretend for a few minutes- so I'm not put in front of a _firing squad_, you're a goddamn fool."

"So you don't believe those things?"

"No! Of course not!"

Pause. "Well…I'm sorry, Feliks."

"You should be sorry." Those palms pulled away from the desk and lit a cigarette, shaking. "I'm insulted, Toris."

The one sitting down did not say a work.

"Don't ever go thinking I actually agree with those goddamn murderers. They make me sick." Puff. "Why didn't you tell me they came?"

"You were so upset yesterday. I thought it would have been a bad idea to bother you."

"So you noticed?"

"Yes, Feliks."

Sigh, a drag on the cigarette. Ashes falling to the floor. "I need to pull myself together. I'm sorry I yelled at you."

"No…I should have known you were acting. But you did it so well..."

"I suppose that's not a bad thing, per se. Do you think Gilbert and Ludwig believed me?"

"Yes. I do think they believed you."

"Good."

Silence.

"Feliks, who accused you of being a homosexual?"

"I don't know _who_ accused me, but I do know why I was accused. The last assistant I had- Well, we were very close friends. I'm sure it doesn't help that I have delicate features and make dresses all day. But it was only a rumor. In truth, I haven't been attracted to anyone in a while. Man, woman. Not important. I'm far too busy for sex and love and all that other horseshit. But I can appreciate beauty in any form it comes in. Maybe I am attracted to other men. I have no fucking idea." A pillar of grey ash. "Either way, the rumor isn't true."

"Well, I'm sorry, Feliks."

"It's fine." An upset hand drifted through that blond hair, making it a mess. "I'm going home now. Would you mind closing the place up?" the cigarette was crushed beneath a fashionable boat. "And pick that up, won't you?"

And the Polish man was gone, leaving Toris feeling quite stupid.

The flattened cigarette butt was cleaned up.


	7. Chapter 7

The next day came in pins and needles. Toris came though the front door feeling like he was treading on land mines. This was made even worse by the absence of Feliks, who was probably busy within the confines of his unhappy sewing dungeon.

Of course, the Lithuanian had to wonder if he had completely repelled Feliks.

But if that was indeed the case, why wasn't he simply fired?

'I'm sorry, Toris. But this isn't working out.'

'I'm sorry, Toris. But you're no longer welcome here.'

'I'm sorry, Toris. But you're a stupid prick.'

The man found a gasp within his throat. Was it possible that his termination was coming today? That Feliks, probably dressed in some kind of fashionable attire, would march out of the basement and tell him to go home.

Perhaps Toris wasn't necessarily cut out for the fashion industry, but he certainly liked his job. It wasn't back breaking labor. It wasn't horrendously unfair work. It wasn't overly taxing. In all regards, this occupation was cushy, considering the fact that Toris could have been building a railroad or putting together a tower.

Of course, he wanted to be a translator.

But well, that didn't work out very well.

"Toris!"

Oh, Holy shit.

"Toris, come down here! I heard you come in!"

So the man gulped and took the door that lead into the dungeon, to face whatever was coming to him. It would have been better if he actually knew that Feliks was going to fire him. At least then there wouldn't be this heart wrenching terror.

If he knew what was coming, he could have dealt with it.

After the stair case, Toris landed in Feliks' keep. There was a dress on display against a mannequin. But before any of this was even considered, the nervous thing went right on with spewing his apology.

"Feliks, I'm sorry about last night. I should have-"

"Jesus, Kid. We've been over this. It's _fine_. I'm not even upset anymore. Don't tell me you spent all night sitting on it." Smoke. Then laughter. "Look, just don't do it again and we'll be great. But something tells me you won't." A quick inhale of tobacco. "What do you think of this gown?"

There was that red-hot orange affair, with enough class to be worn to a dinner party, and enough of a casual attitude to say, 'Yes I am a very nice dress. But you can wear me whenever the hell you want.' It had a lovely body, full of lush frills and sex appeal, as well as the obnoxious sort of shine any woman would love.

"It's wonderful."

"Good. I worked very hard on it." Those emerald eyes shifted to the dress. Feliks looked at it the way a parent would look proudly at a child. "It's for Elizaveta."

"Oh, that's right. She did ask for that color, didn't she?"

"Do you think she'll like it?"

"Yes. She's probably going to be ecstatic."

A nod. "Well, help me move this upstairs, then. She's going to come in today and I want it to be on display."

"Of course."

So Toris took the mannequin's feet and Feliks held it by the stomach, and the two carefully moved the thing into the main room. Toris wondered why Feliks had not simply dressed it in the parlor, or why he had dressed it at all. But he was far too elated that his boss had harbored no ill will toward him. No, Feliks didn't wish to fire him. He didn't wish to subject Toris to some sort of punishment. One could even say that Feliks regarded Toris as an equal.

But that might be pushing it.

"Toris, would you like to come over for dinner sometime?"

The bottom half of the figure was almost dropped. "What?"

"_I said_, do you want to come over for dinner sometime?"

"Certainly! But- why do you want to have me for dinner? I mean-" Toris stopped before he sounded any dumber.

"You're my friend. Why else?" A puff of cigarette smoke. "Besides, it's been a while since I've had anyone over. I figure it might be good for my sanity."

"That sounds great! Should I bring anything?"

"Well, I don't know-" The mannequin was set down against the old floorboards. "You could bring food, or wine, or cigarettes. Or desert. Whatever you think is necessary; I'm quite fine with anything."

But before the conversation could go on, Roderich and Elizaveta walked through the doors, and Feliks' cigarette was handed to Toris.

"Oh, Hello, Dears! How have either of you been?"

And there was the other version of Feliks. The flamboyant one; the talkative one; the fake one. His hand gestures seemed to change, as well as the tone in his voice. And this Feliks didn't smoke either. Heavens, no.

It occurred to Toris that this odd Polish man was far more open with him that he was with anyone else. The version that was being fed to Roderich and Elizaveta wasn't the true Feliks Łukasiewicz. The Feliks Łukasiewicz they witnessed was carefree and _adored_ crafting dresses. Ten hours for a single gown? Please. That was nothing.

But in all reality, no one worked more intensely than the Polish man. To say any differently was a rigid insult.

So Elizaveta tried on her gown, and of course, looked absolutely stunning. What was a beautiful woman turned to a golden goddess. The look on her husband's face was something priceless- as though he had gone stupid just glancing at her.

Roderich was all the more uncomfortable when his doll of a wife embraced the dress maker, right before he paid his money and they left together.

Elizaveta didn't remove the gown either.

She exited the shop with the old dress taking up one Feliks' fine paper bags.

Then a good sum of money was handed to Toris.

"Don't spend it all in one place. I'll be downstairs if you need me."

For a moment, Toris regarded that mess of bills with disbelief. He had never held so much money at once. Granted, he had collected quite a bit through saving carefully and denying himself little pleasures. But _still_. This was a small fortune at least. For him it was.

That night, Toris bought himself a fine dinner and slept well afterwards.


	8. Chapter 8

Toris stood at the staircase, watching as Feliks stuffed an enormous mass of money into a pair of trousers he had just finished sewing. The bills were not shoved into a normal pocket. In fact, it looked as though the man was attempting to jam the money into the area around the belt, where a pocket very well could have been.

And it fit.

And Feliks looked up.

Immediately, the trousers were folded into a neat square. They were ready to be given away. The designer behaved as though he had been caught in some kind of horrible position. As though he was making love in someone else's bed and that person just happened to come right in and walk through their bedroom door.

Feliks covered his chest. It was the only thing he could do.

"Hello, Toris. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes…I did."

Oh, so they were going to pretend that the entire thing didn't happen. Alright. It might have been easier that way, since Toris wouldn't get the truth no matter how he asked, 'What were you doing?'

No way in _hell_.

"Did someone order a pair of pants?"

"Of course. It's not like I sit around and make all these clothes for myself-" An awkward laugh. "So when do you want to come over for dinner, Toris? Would Sunday be alright?"

There was something genuinely comical about this moment. Perhaps because Feliks was so incredibly off. Or the fact that his voice must have raised an octave. Or the fact that his face was red.

Toris had never caught his manager in this position before. He might have laughed if he wasn't so taken.

What was the man to make of this?

"Well, I don't see anything wrong with Sunday night, Feliks. What time?"

"Eight. I'll get you my address." The freshly sewn pants were placed in the cozy little corner and Feliks sat back at his machine. "Will you fetch me that fabric over there; the blue one?"

"Of course."

So Toris fetched that roll of blue and held it for Feliks, while those judgmental fingers ran over it. He was doing everything more quickly, some adrenaline pumped into his blood and making work move faster. Feliks wanted to move on from that _one_ moment. He wanted to forget what Toris saw, and of course, he wanted Toris to forget all together.

It was unfortunate for the Polish man that his assistant was quite attentive. In fact, noticing subtle things, like quirks and strange behavior was one of his finest skills. And this was nothing subtle.

Feliks was stuffing those trousers as an overweight housewife stuffs a turkey.

Later that day, one of Feliks' employees came into the store. Toris could tell he was one of those employees due to the arm band that marked him as a Jew, and the wretched state of him all together. That visage was drenched in apprehension. The Jew came into the store as though he was being followed. But that was nothing uncommon, considering the state of things in Poland. He looked nervous, tired and hungry.

This was not the sort of person that typically came into Feliks' store. The people who normally set foot upon the welcome mat were well-dressed, calm, smooth, _wealthy_. Either that or they proudly wore the Führer's uniform, and in that case they rarely bought anything.

This man was a mouse in a rat's den.

And it showed.

"Excuse me, is Mr. Łukasiewicz in?"

"Yes, he's in the basement at the moment. I can go fetch him, but it might be a moment."

But there was Feliks, because in the strangest way, he was psychic. It seemed like whenever someone walked through those doors (who was going to request him), he would appear. So Toris wouldn't even have to get up.

Could he hear them?

No. That seemed ludicrous.

So the two huddled in the corner of the main shop for a moment and spoke in hushed Polish. The Jew-whoever he was, was talking very quietly and very quickly. So much so, that Toris couldn't make out what he was saying. But no matter what he said, Feliks offered a few words of comfort. After about a minute, either of them went into the basement.

It was at that point that the entire shop grew incredibly quiet. The only sound that could be heard was the conversation of people walking by that shiny glass window.

It seemed like an eternity before the Jewish man came back out, with a fresh pair of pants on, and left immediately through the front door.

The bell rung and the man was gone.

Toris began to wonder what he had missed. Because he had obviously missed _something._


	9. Chapter 9

Toris lied within his bed and stared at the ceiling.

Somehow, it all clicked together.

The reason why the Nazis came so often.

The reason why Feliks had become so upset at the death of one of his employees.

The reason why he had given a new pair of pants to that Jewish man. The very same pair all of those bills had been shoved into.

Toris had stumbled into something far larger than it seemed. Yes, perhaps there were suspicious elements before, but now, all of those things were coming together and knotting themselves into an answer.

Feliks was helping them escape.

The reason why so many employees were going away is because Feliks was _sending_ them away.

The Lithuanian man's mouth opened a bit, completely ajar. And his pretty green sights did not move from the damp spot on the ceiling.

He wondered why he did not notice it sooner.

The respect within Toris' chest blossomed. Before, the foreigner only looked up to his boss because of his amazing needle work and dedication to his trade. But now, now- Feliks was something even more God like. Feliks was a genuine _fucking_ hero.

Who ever thought that making pants could save lives?

And Toris wanted to be a hero too. He wanted to keep as many of those poor people from death's hand as possible. The Nazis, more so than ever, made him entirely sick. In fact, they made a lot of people sick. Feliks was most likely the sickest of them all.

But of course, the brunette had to wonder if having this knowledge would simply get him fired.

That Polish man obviously wanted this to be a secret. Why else would he have such a shocked reaction? Why else would he pretend that his counterpart had seen absolutely _nothing_ at all and move on, behaving as though not a damn thing had happened.

Perhaps, inside Feliks' head, he was only one cut out for this occupation.

Could Toris play savoir?

The most he had ever saved was a beautiful spider from going into a drain and drowning. That hardly counted as heroism. That hardly counted as anything at all.

Spiders and Jewish people really weren't the same thing.

But you might get a different answer if you asked a Nazi.

The Lithuanian took in a large breath. He was trying to fill his lungs to full capacity, maybe then he could catch these mad thoughts and push them through his nose.

It felt like there was some kind of weight on his chest anyway.

A sigh.

Either way, he would have to speak about this with Feliks again. He would have to raise his voice and ask for affirmation. On all the storms raging within his mind. After all, Feliks started them.

Yes. Maybe he could manage to keep quiet.

But eventually, he would see something again . Again, and his stupid mouth would go running before his mind could go and capture it.

So why hesitate? Why wait until either of them were standing at the counter at the shop? Or in the basement a week from now? Or at the door before one of them left?

They would be having dinner together tomorrow night. Why not ask then?

That's exactly what Toris would do.

So the man lied in bed and prepared himself for what he could be getting into. Then, he finally closed his eyes and managed to get to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

Toris had brought a fine bottle of wine to dinner. And currently, he sat on the Polish man's fine black couch, clutching the neck in a kind of nervous anticipation. His heart was yelling inside his ears and filling his face up with red hot blood.

It had been awkward so far.

The Lithuanian man hadn't raised his voice yet. He hadn't said, 'Oh Feliks, please let me help you. What you're doing is so admirable.'

Even his head was rambling.

But what else was he supposed to say? The brunette wasn't exactly blunt.

And Feliks had noticed it. While he stood at the oven, checking over the chicken they were going to eat, he flicked his sharp green eyes back at his assistant, who was so uncomfortable upon the sofa. He could feel it across the room.

Toris tied his stomach into a knot.

So, to take his mind from the serpentine mess that was becoming his innards, the apartment was examined.

It was just as one would image Feliks' space to be. In fact, if Feliks lived in anything but a stylish apartment Toris would have been shocked. The lovely pictures on the walls were expected. The pretty splotches of bright color were expected. The bright red plates that would hold their meals were expected. The shiny silverware was expected.

And despite the fact that this was all very predictable, it didn't take away from the fact that the place was lovely.

It was certainly a nice break from the poverty of Toris' ugly flat.

He wondered if the stain in his ceiling was really something to worry about.

A weight joined Toris on the cushions.

"Hello." The blond man offered a little grin. "Was the wine expensive, Toris?"

"Oh no…It's just something I was saving for a special occasion. I got it when I first moved here, but…Well. I haven't had a lot of friends to have dinner with. Most of the ones I have had were poor bachelors who couldn't cook worth a damn, so…"

"Are you one of those, Toris?"

"Unfortunately, yes." The Lithuanian calmed himself. "I think most men can't cook."

"Well, that's certainly true. But I can." Feliks took in a breath. "Toris, why did you come to Poland? It's awful here. It baffles the hell out of me- why someone would take so much time to learn the language and live here…"

"It's not so bad."

"No. It's not _so_ bad. It's horrible." Feliks exhaled, as though he was smoking. Expect he wasn't. His mind was too hooked on thought to bother with the pleasure of a cigarette. "Perhaps it's better than Lithuania. What's it like, living under Communism?"

"Well. It's certainly different. I can't say I honestly enjoyed it, but for me- there's really nothing different. I mean, my entire life, my country has been red. But now that I'm somewhere else…Although, you're right. It's hard here. Especially with the Nazis invading. Life is hard everywhere, I guess. It still doesn't take away from the fact that this is different for me. I'd rather stay here than get sent back home."

The Polish man thought. "Are you happy here, Toris?"

"In Warsaw? Yes. I would say so. I have a nice job. And I've made a friend, I suppose-"

"Goddamn it. How many times do I have to tell you? We _are_ friends. You wouldn't be at my home if I disliked you even to a _degree_." That chest rose and fell. Blond hair tangled in slight frustration but the owner managed to calm down.

"I'm sorry, Feliks."

"Don't apologize! You're referring to me like- like I'm your boss or something. Look- You don't have to be sorry, I just- _Don't look at me that way!_ I'm starting to feel awful!"

"I'm-" Oh. Apologies weren't allowed. "Alright. I won't look at you that way." Some kind of awkward smile moved Toris' face. And it made Feliks' brows sink into those grass green eyes.

It then occurred to Toris that Feliks probably didn't have a boat load of companions. He probably didn't have dinner with every kind person he met. Hell, Feliks was probably a lot more lonesome than he let on.

Toris could tell that getting to see this place was a step above a privilege. Not many entered here. Not many were allowed to place their eyes against the portraits the designer had hung up on the walls. Not many were fortunate enough to have the Polish man _cook_ for them.

"I am your friend, aren't I?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you. You know, Toris, for being a good listener, you're really terrible at listening."

"Well-" Just go for it. "Well, can I ask you something then?"

"Yes. Ask."

The words got stuck for a moment. Like rise arguing for a place within in a funnel's neck. But Toris managed to spit them out, piece by piece.

In a whisper.

"Are you-"

Yes, go on.

"Are you saving Jews?"

Then, a moment of thick silence. And a sigh from Feliks' center. It was deep. The kind of breath a disappointed father expels when he's more upset than he's letting on.

"Don't bring that up. I'm not doing anything."

"Feliks, I promise I won't tell anyone. Really. I just- I want to help you."

"Toris, _I'm not doing anything_."

Pause. "We both know that's not true."

"No, Toris. You only _think _it's not true, when I _know_ it is true. And let's just leave it at that."

"Well then, what _are _you doing?"

"_I'm not doing anything, Toris!_" The chamber floundered into quiet again. Crashing into it at light speed and breaking everyone's teeth in the process. Toris stared at Feliks. And Feliks stared back.

It was unfortunate that those intense green eyes wore the truth. Feliks was lying. He was lying and desperately begging the Lithuanian to back off. Because anymore prodding and Feliks _would_ let him help.

At that moment, the timer rang and the chicken was done.

Feliks ate up air like he was starving for it. "Don't worry about me, Toris. Just worry about you. The moment you fill your life up with the world's problems is the moment you stop living. Dinner is ready." The blond stood up and slipped on those happy pink cooking gloves.

Toris only watched. Feeling as though he had _yet again_ done something horrendously stupid in regards to Feliks Łukasiewicz.

So he poured the milk and put the wine on the table.

Then the two sat down, a chicken breast placed before either of them.

"I'm sorry Feliks."

"Don't apologize."

"But I _am_ sorry. You just- you're intriguing. I wish you would let me know more about you, but I don't want to be pushy." The fork sank into that fragrant meat and the knife began to cut. "You can do everything, can't you?"

"No, Toris. All I can do is make dresses and cook chicken." A bite taken. "And get mad at my Lithuanian friend." Another bite. "Now I want a cigarette."

"So smoke one."

"I don't light up in the apartment. My land lady gets pissed."

"Oh…Then we should eat outside."

Feliks took a sip of milk, and said nothing more than a grunt. He allowed an uncomfortable session of seconds to pass before bringing up a different matter entirely. "Toris, tell me what it's like in Lithuania. Let's talk about something else."

The Lithuanian man scrunched in his lips. "Well, I don't want to talk about that, really. It's so much to go into…"

"Then tell me something I don't know about you yet."

_Come on_.

It was getting awkward now. But that wasn't Feliks' fault. He was merely trying to progress into conversation to block out what that silly brunette had just brought up. It was something he did and it currently wasn't working. Toris was far too much in a daze of potential hurt and even larger shame.

He was kicking himself in the stomach and wondering why Feliks didn't trust him enough to tell him the truth.

"I'm sorry, Feliks."

"For fuck's sake! Stop apologizing! You haven't done anything wrong-" Frustrated breath. "Look, it's like I said, don't worry about me. You'll be happier with your own problems."

Silence.

"I'm sorry, Toris. I've upset you."

Those foreign eyes met with the blond one across from them. They met with the emotion in the man's beautiful face and the heart break that made itself an apology.

"Look, just don't be upset. It's nothing personal."

After a pause, words. "Alright, Feliks."

"Alright." A bite of food. "Now please, tell me about yourself."

So Toris told Feliks about himself, what little bits he could that seemed interesting enough. They ate their meals. They sat outside and Feliks smoked a cigarette. Then they drank the bottle of wine and Toris went home later that night-wearing a bit of disappointment and still managing to tear himself into shreds for being so damn stupid.


	11. Chapter 11

A few days passed and the entire shop was held under siege by some kind of tension. Toris and Feliks spoke as they usually had. Feliks gave orders. Toris followed them. They discussed things. Normal things. Contrite things. Like the weather. Or a new gown. Or how badly Feliks wanted a cigarette.

But they didn't speak of dinner.

They didn't speak of Jews. They didn't speak of Nazis.

Days were stilted. Dialogue was stuffed into place. A pillow over filled with wiry cotton.

Finally, it broke. When late one night Toris was in the basement with the Polish man. He was sitting on the staircase, eating a bright red apple he had bought only a few hours prior, while Feliks did what Feliks did best.

But suddenly, he stopped.

"Toris…" Those dainty fingers sank into the deep red fabric of a dress that was almost done. "Come here."

"Am I in trouble?"

This whole moment took the Lithuanian back to his childhood. One time the teacher called him out during class, and the boy had no idea what he had done wrong.

He had been accused of cheating.

Even though he had done no such thing.

Someone must have copied his paper, not the other way around.

"Oh, if you were in trouble, you would know long before now." Clammy palms adjusted that vibrant sea of crimson. "Just come here."

So Toris removed himself from the stairwell and stood very closely to Feliks, who looked at him with such intensity, he wasn't certain of what to make of it.

Feliks' voice dropped down into his throat and barely climbed over a whisper.

"I want to trust you."

"Feliks, you _can_ trust me."

You could hear a pin drop.

"Listen, Toris. Do you want to help me?"

"Yes-! More than anything." The sound swelled in excitement and burst in concern. "Yes, please. In any way I can."

"You have to be _careful_. If you, for whatever reason, get yourself into trouble I'm not going to be able to get you out of it. I have to know; are you a good liar? Because you don't look like one."

"I lie when it's necessary. And I'm great when I have to be."

Consideration; it seemed like it could be a bad decision.

"The Nazis will probably start interviewing you too."

"That's fine. I can handle them. Truly."

The next few seconds passed in pressure.

"Alright then. I'm going to have you run errands for me from time to time. So, they don't necessarily have to come into the shop." Feliks once again adjusted the fabric beneath the needle. "I think I've been losing my mind lately, maybe finally putting my trust into someone would be a good thing. I've been paranoid."

The two looked at one another.

"You know, Toris, I really don't have a lot of friends. Barely any at all, really. I think it could be the time. Everyone is too terrified to be associating with other people. But then…Well, I've always been kind of an introvert. Meeting new faces tends to scare the shit out of me, and I don't know why. So I don't want to keep you at arm's length from me. I like you, Toris."

"I like you too, Feliks. Which is why I was a little more than hurt when…Well, It's not worth it, to be upset anymore. I'm really glad you decided to trust me. I promise, I won't tell let you down."

"No. I don't think you will. But then…If you I thought you were going to, I wouldn't have hired you."

Something within the Polish man's eyes softened considerably and a bit of raw emotion made its way into his expression.

And it was evident. All the love this man held about his crux every single day for all things. His sympathy for the miserable, and his heart-wrenching understanding.

He didn't want to hurt Toris. He didn't want to hurt anyone. He never did. So the mix of something in his eyes, whether it was heart ache or genuine affection or just sorry, managed to strike a chord within the Lithuanian's blood. He felt a certain sensation, glancing into those blatant green crystals. A sentiment he couldn't possibly label or describe.

It was then that the two had a solid connection.

It was then that they would likely be friends until the end of time. Because they clicked together. One puzzle piece searching for another in a jigsaw cluster fuck of 998 other parts.

"Thank you, Feliks."

"Well. I should thank you, for putting up with me so long. Sometimes I think about the things I put other people through and I honestly wonder how any of them can tolerate me. I probably would have punched me in the mouth by now."

"If it makes you feel any better, I would never think about punching you."

"Would you rather kick me instead?"

"No. I might pinch you, though."

A small grin. "That's not so bad. I can deal with being pinched." Feliks stood up and pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it. Well, you're free to go home now. I don't want to trap you here any longer than you have to be. Besides, if you don't go, I'll probably end up talking to you about something or other for the next few hours and this dress will never be finished. And I really do have to complete it, because I promised the woman it would be done by tomorrow."

"Well, Good luck, Feliks. It looks pretty close to being done. So maybe you won't have to be in the dungeon too long."

"Thank you, Toris."

"Of course. Good night."

"Good night."

And Toris removed himself from the basement and stepped outside, beneath the dim street lights and harsh air. But the dark surroundings weren't acknowledged. That crappy apartment- completely ignored. Because the Lithuanian was far too happy to be dragged down by such arbitrary details.

That night was laced in pleasant dreams.


	12. Chapter 12

So Toris took on two jobs. He was Feliks' receptionist and his errand boy. Occasionally, Feliks would have a pair of pants ready to go and they would be given to the Lithuanian to deliver to a certain Jew. There were also the other things as well. The gowns. The summer dresses, which were asked for in abundance because of their lowered cost- sometimes even a costume for a young man.

These were delivered far more than the Jewish trousers. Feliks said it was so they didn't raise any suspicion from a paranoid Nazi or two, but Toris was half certain that Feliks didn't want to deal with those bitchy women.

And he certainly couldn't blame him. Toris didn't want to deal with them either, but it was a grand part of the occupation and entirely unavoidable. They came in with their neutered husbands, demanding silk and perfume and pearls, with their gloved fingers that had been spoiled and their hungry lips that had been fed too much.

It almost seemed disgusting that these were the same kind of women that wore the hard labor of numerous Jews, working in conditions akin to Feliks' dungeon. Perhaps even worse. Toris could feel the sweat sticking to their flesh, gluing their elbows to the inside of their sleeves and accumulating where any amount of fat was. Between thighs. Under breasts. Along the hips.

And here were these entitled women, who never worked a day in their lives, eating this shit up like candy. Speaking German as though it was fashionable. Not a language of oppression crammed into everyone's mouth.

And The Nazis didn't even have the decency to hand you a glass of water.

They ate that shit up.

Sometimes it was difficult to look into the faces of those dejected people. See the starvation in their cheeks and the scrunch of dehydrated lips, then turn right back around and speak to the wife of a rich Nazi. But it was what it was. The only fortunate part of the situation was that these Nazis were helping their Jewish allies escape.

Toris wondered if they would stop asking for fur coats and start wearing Jew hide instead.

"Oh, _this_ coat? This was made from a Jewish man hiding in a Polish woman's basement. Yes, you see- the slickness of the coat is due to the fact that they're all just full of puss inside. It really does make a nice polish. Too bad they're really not good for anything else."

Herr Hitler would be proud.

But Herr Lorinaitis was plainly sick.

Maybe it was the communist in him. The man really couldn't be sure. The crimson behind the golden hammer and sickle was like a stain. It gobbled up his flesh and sank into his pores. No matter how hard Toris scrubbed, it was only reduced down to a light pink. It would stay with him forever. A tiny parasite that allowed the host to live a full and blooming life, but came outside to bitch about something every once in a while.

It was the communist in him that kicked him in the stomach when he heard so much nastiness towards the Jewish. When people said they were less than human and spoke of kicking dirt into their faces. That they were better, when in fact, they were so much further than human- they were less than they accused the Jews of being.

So Toris didn't mind delivering the extra garments to women fully capable of walking a few blocks to come to Feliks' store. He didn't mind looking at them- with their expensive dresses and robes and necklaces worn for the sake of wearing a necklace.

They reminded him with he wanted to do this. Why he had signed up and begged Feliks to let him help in _some_ way. Why he wished to push these poor souls the hell out of Poland and to somewhere safe.

Maybe Switzerland.

Maybe America.

Maybe even the Soviet Union. At least they would be safe there.

And when he returned, there was Feliks, to give him a little grin. As if to say, 'Thank you, Toris. I'm glad I decided to trust you.'

His pay came at the end of every week with a bottle of freezing cold cola. And it was so damn refreshing.

The days could be exhausting, dipped in Polish and German and Yiddish. Dipped in wealth and poverty and discrimination between the two.

But Toris was happy. Far happier than he had been as a translator, because it felt like he was doing something of real worth. Not just tackling a pile of busy work and getting his ass handed to him at the same time.


	13. Chapter 13

It all rested on a relatively simple day. Not many people were coming in. Feliks was sitting on the floor, legs outstretched. Cigarette suspended between his lips and smoke rising up into his worn face.

The man had finally let the sewing machine win. They had gotten in a lover's quarrel. Feliks yelled the worst of Polish obscenities, and the machine tore up the already difficult thread. It tangled it up and tied it around the needle and snapped it into pieces of loose fiber. Then it overheated in a bitch fit and pretended to have a fever and whined. Then the blond man raised his voice and threatened to throw it from the front door, so all of the customers could see its shame. So it could explain why there would be no new dresses today, or the next day. Or ever. So it could apologize.

But that didn't happen. Feliks simply became flustered and gave up.

Gold was in a bunch, resting against the wall.

A sigh written in grey smoke.

"Goddamn it, Toris. I hate that fucking thing sometimes."

"I know you do, Feliks. And I can't blame you."

"I mean-what the hell am I supposed to do? It kicked me out of that basement, Toris. I can't even look at it anymore. If I have to be down there one more minute, I'm going to rip every last strand of hair from my head."

"Well, don't do that. You can't be bald."

"No, I suppose I can't be. Besides, if I tear my hair out, it wins. I can't let it have the satisfaction. That's admitting defeat."

"You're right. It'll laugh at you."

"Fuck my sewing machine. I need a new one anyway." Puff. Smoke. Little orange-red light. Ash. "Maybe it's a sign. Maybe I should go on vacation."

"Can I come too?"

"Sure. We'll go to Paris. Oh, never mind. The Nazis ruined that country too. I blame them for my sewing machine. They're stressing it out."

It was at that moment that Elizaveta came in, dressed in a simple purple gown and wearing a pair of happy pink shoes. She glanced to Toris and then to Feliks, who was still splayed about the floor as though he had been thrown there.

She wore trouble on her face.

"I smoke, Elizaveta. I hope you're not going to disown me. I'm also too lazy to find a chair." The blond man rose. "But that's not important. How have you been?"

"I've been well…" That was a lie.

And Feliks knew, but he didn't have the energy to make a show of it. "Well, that's spectacular. What do you need?"

"I just wanted to have another dress made. Maybe one from the catalogue?"

"_The catalogue?_ But you always have such bright ideas for a new design. You hardly need the _catalogue_."

"Oh, I don't have any good ideas at the moment. One of my gowns suddenly grew a hole in it and I need something to replace it."

"I would offer to fix it, but my sewing machine is acting like a spoiled bitch. Excuse my language. It's been a long day."

It was eleven in the morning.

"But you're welcome to drop it off. I'll do my best to fix it. Did it tear along the seam?"

"Yes."

"Then you don't need a new dress, dear. Trust me; repairing it is so much cheaper than getting a new one all together."

"Well, can I have a new dress anyway?"

Feliks was slightly dumbfounded and even more disoriented. But that was alright. It honestly didn't matter what the Polish man thought. The customer was always right.

"If course you can, Elizaveta. Toris, go and take her measurements. I'll take over while you're gone." The cigarette was extinguished on the floor, beneath an expensive Italian loafer. "Clean that up, won't you?"

Toris actually sighed that time. "Of course, Feliks."

After picking up the cigarette butt, the Lithuanian man lead Elizaveta into the singular dressing room the store had, having her lift her arms and turn around in certain directions and writing it all down as they went along.

Of course, Elizaveta had this done before, but Feliks never kept measurements. It saved him from telling a loyal customer she had gotten fat. And it was a lot of paper to have lying about. A disorganized fire hazard.

As Toris measured Elizaveta's neck circumference, the woman began to cry.

Her troubled face sank into her hands and the moans were shot into her palms, muffled through flesh and muscle and bone.

"Elizaveta, what's wrong?"

"I'm sorry-" She sounded half hysterical. "I- I saw someone-" Choke. Choking on words that were sharp and rigid. "Someone was-"

"It's alright. You can take your time."

Gasp. A desperate cry for air. "Someone was shot right in front of our home. We watched it happen." Those mascara-lined cheeks were wiped clean, the blush taken along with the tears. "A few Nazis shot a poor old Jewish man. He hadn't even done anything wrong. And they just-"

Toris listened intently. It was the only thing he could do.

"I watched him die. A huge puddle of blood spread out beneath him. There was so much of it."

"It's horrible, isn't it?"

"Oh Toris, I hate it. I hate what they're doing to those poor people. They never did anything to hurt anyone. That poor old man- What was he guilty of? _Walking a little too slowly?_ I just-I wish we could go somewhere else, Roderich and I. Living here makes me sick."

"It's hard, Elizaveta. But talking about these things now is a bad idea. I don't want you to get yourself in trouble."

"You're right. You're so right. But I had nowhere else to go. I can't make friends with anyone- not the other wives of those monsters. They- they actually believe it. You know-"

"Elizaveta, hush. I know it's tough. And I understand everything that you're saying, but…You just have to calm down. Really."

"Alright…Alright. Thank you, Toris."

"It's nothing." The pen and paper used for measurements was stowed away. "Do you want to sit here for a moment to calm down?"

"Yes, please."

"Alright. Come out when you're ready and I'll get you the catalogue."

"Thank you, Toris. I appreciate it."

When Toris emerged from the room, he found Gilbert standing at the front desk, speaking with Feliks and immediate horror struck like a lightning bolt from a happy blue sky.

His mouth dried.

And his stomach shriveled.

"Is Elizaveta in there?"

"Yes…She is."

Toris moved from the door and Gilbert moved toward it. He spoke to her, saying something along the lines of, 'you need to come with me now.' And was answered with, 'No. I don't want to.'

But eventually, the poor Hungarian was pulled from her place and dragged out into the shop, where everyone could see her smeared make-up and swollen eyes.

And the two left together.

The very last image Toris received was Feliks sighing, wearing a look of severe worry and going back into the dungeon.

Maybe he would try to reason with the machine.

Maybe he would just sit and think.


	14. Chapter 14

The incident with Elizaveta sat upon Toris' forehead a good few days after it had happened. She stuck to him like grit on a grill. Something about the event seemed wrong. As though none of it would end well. It seemed so serious; this situation.

Perhaps Toris was just losing his mind.

When he wanted to, he was wonderful at it.

Finally, Toris said, "Do you think Elizaveta is alright?"

"Well…I'm not sure if she is."

"Did you see Gilbert? He looked so grave. Like he had come to take her to a concentration camp or something. Have you seen her around lately?"

"No, Toris. But then again, I usually only see my clients when they come in. If you haven't guessed, well. I really don't get out much." Pause. "Don't worry about Elizaveta. Worrying won't do a thing. We can only hope that she's not harmed and if she is- there's simply nothing we can do."

"I know, Feliks. Could either of you hear what she's saying, outside the door?"

"Well, _I _couldn't make out what she was speaking of, but she certainly sounded upset. I won't ask you what she said, even though I am rather curious. I'm sure whatever it was, it was incriminating. That's why you're asking, isn't it?"

Toris' silence made the answer.

"It's a shame. I really liked her. Aside from you, that woman was the closest thing I had to a friend. Whenever she came in, we always talked for such a long time. Let's just hope Gilbert only had to ask her a few questions and that's it."

Neither said anything more after that.

Life seemed to move forward from that point on. Toris continued to run his errands and take phone calls and be the very best assistant he was capable of being. And Feliks sewed. Feliks sewed and sewed and sewed. Luckily, his machine usually behaved itself. Usually.

And one day after work, Feliks pulled Toris into his office. The Lithuanian was told to sit in the chair placed before that grand mahogany desk and for a moment, he panicked.

This had never happened before. So the man had to wonder, was he in some kind of trouble? Had Feliks decided to fire him? Maybe due to lack of funds or because Toris was doing a shitty job.

But Toris _wasn't _doing a shitty job.

Not purposefully.

"Toris-"

"Am I in trouble?"

Feliks sighed immediately. "No, Toris. You're not in trouble. I'm really not the sort of boss that sits his employees down when they've done something wrong. I'll usually just yell. So, in most cases you would know long before now if I was upset with you."

"Oh."

"Yeah, _oh_. It must be difficult to be you. You're always so worried." A small grin. "Anyway, I called you into my office to show you something. I think you've earned it. Of course, this is the sort of something you can't tell anyone about. But I trust you."

Toris allowed himself to feel a little bit special.

And then, a book was placed upon the table from one of blond man's drawers.

"I usually don't keep this here, so if you're looking for it for whatever reason, rummaging through my desk to find it won't amount to anything. Well- then again, you might find some interesting things, but that's beyond the point." A breath. "Go ahead. Look at it."

Toris took the thing from the desk's surface, opening to the first page and reading an enormous list of names. There had to be at least fifty, perhaps more. And Toris leafed through the book, finding the same occurrence from page one to fifteen.

"What is this, Feliks?"

"It's the Jews we've rescued. Thanks to you, I've been able to write inside that book more and more. I felt that you should see it. Because you've assisted me greatly. You've made my job much easier, Toris."

"Well, it's the least I can do. I honestly feel as though I'm really doing something worthwhile."

"It is rewarding, isn't it?"

"Yes…Do you know how any of them are doing?"

"No. I tell them that once they leave, they have to forget about Poland. No letters here. No visits. Poland doesn't exist anymore. It would be catastrophic if it did."

"It makes sense."

There was a very long silence, pregnant with careful thoughts and floundering in its weight.

Then, Feliks put the book back into its little compartment inside his desk.

"Toris, if you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?"

"Anywhere?"

"Yes. Anywhere."

"I suppose I would go to America. I'm extremely curious of life there…In Lithuania, sometimes it felt like you weren't getting the whole story, if you were listening to the news, or reading the paper. And since America is a capitalist country, well…You can just imagine the things that were said about it. But I want to see for myself." A pause. "Where would you go, Feliks?"

"Well…Honestly, my first choice would be France. But we all know what's happened to it."

"Why France?"

Feliks took a long moment. "I think I like it so well because it's romantic, and the streets must be beautiful. And there's the fashion, of course." Pause. "But I guess I'd have to agree with you, Toris. Now I would go to America. You can be any color and any creed and no one has the right to eradicate you. Of course, I'm sure it's difficult. But the freedom- to say whatever the hell you want and not have to be terrified if someone heard you; you would only have to worry about pissing someone off, and where does that lead to? They're upset at your opinion? So what? You can be black, white, Jewish, gay. It doesn't matter. No one has the right to take your life away from you for being something different."

At that point, Feliks lit a cigarette.

"Thank you, Toris. If you don't mind, I'm going to close up shop. I'm exhausted."

"Of course, Feliks. You can do whatever you like."

A nod from the Polish man, who left the office with Toris still inside it. Yes, he had gone, but the weightiness of the air remained. It hung heavy and placed quite the unease within Toris' stomach.

Moments such as these with Feliks made him enormously grateful; and enormously worried. Grateful, because The Lithuanian was well aware that no one else received this portion of Feliks Łukasiewicz and worried him due to the simple fact that his companion was troubled when those things came to a boiling head.

But Toris let it all go and went home, to a night of strangely colored dreams.


	15. Chapter 15

The next day began in tension. As Toris was walking to work, he was followed by Ludwig and Gilbert a few feet before he was stopped and asked to be spoken to.

The man could feel his heart screaming. Faltering within his chest and plainly failing before a damn thing could be done.

No paramedics. No medicine. Just death.

"What is it you want to talk to me about?"

"Elizaveta Edelstein."

One of his vessels must have burst. Toris could feel the blood quitting and gathering.

"What about Elizaveta? Is she alright?"

Of course she wasn't alright. Anyone who had Nazis asking questions about them wasn't alright by any means. Their life was over. And if it wasn't, it soon would be. That's how it worked. That's how those band wearing lunatics did their business.

"Well, maybe alright isn't the correct work. Regardless, we need you to tell us what she said to you in the dressing room." Gilbert wore some kind of smug expression and it made Toris fucking sick. "She sounded upset."

"She was upset…" Well, here's your chance, Toris. Feliks told you this would happen. Now, you can prove your ability to handle Nazis. "Honestly, she was pretty incoherent. It was difficult to understand what she was saying, but she did mention something about someone getting hurt and she had to watch. Like I said, it really didn't make much sense- but that was about the most of it."

"Was that all she said?"

"Yes. That was all. I told her that she should try and calm down, but it just wasn't happening. I figured I should leave her alone at that point, and that's when I saw you waiting at the front desk."

"In your opinion, why did she really come into the store? Do you think she wanted to confide in you-whatever she said, or do you think she really wanted a dress?"

Toris thought a long time. "I think it can be a little bit of both. Elizaveta came in frequently to have a gown made, and the beginning of her visit went exactly that way. Maybe it was a subconscious thing- that coming to get a dress was really an excuse she made in her head to justify coming in and spilling her heart out. I can't be too certain. The whole incident was something surreal. One minute, I'm taking her measurements and the next-she's crying like someone shot her dog."

Either Nazi contributed a small laugh.

"Well, that's all we wanted to know. Thank you, Toris."

"Of course. It's no problem." The man's hands were shaking- but he couldn't tell if the quivers were anything visual or something he was exaggerating within his head. Bu the Lithuanian was sure they could hear his heart beating. It was so loud, it must have been hollering outside his chest. It ate up his ears and made him ill.

How he had managed to maintain the composure in his voice was a total goddamn mystery.

"Have a nice day, gentlemen."

Words that tasted like sewage.

"Have a nice day."

Then Toris went to work. He was awake the entire day.


	16. Chapter 16

Things progressed. The days passed and everything seemed to calm, to a degree. The unsettling image of Roderich was seen, passing by the shop, glancing in with those miserable blue eyes.

He had lost his wife.

Maybe he had lost his mind too.

The bags under his eyes were thick caked-on exhaustion that hung like loose skin.

Toris genuinely felt sorry for him. That Austrian used to be so happy; he loved his wife. Shamelessly. No one was more in love with their spouse. He used to hold her hand and kiss her cheek and take her outside, so the world could admire her beauty. Roderich was proud of her. And he was so happy to say that this woman was his.

It must have been horrifying then, to come home and have her missing, to wonder just what in hell happened to that gorgeous woman. Did they put her in a concentration camp? Kill her on the spot? Lock her up for interrogation? Were they coming for him next?

It was a witch hunt. Roderich was connected. They were married for a reason, weren't they?

The stress wore down in his face.

Whenever Toris saw him, he looked worse than the last time.

The Lithuanian began to wonder why more people didn't try to escape. Of course, it was difficult, but Roderich and Elizaveta weren't Jews, gypsies, homosexuals. Sure, they had human hearts and empathy- something that Nazis absolutely detested and misunderstood, but that was easy to hide. It would have been for simpler for them to escape than anyone else.

But then again, why wasn't he leaving? Toris could likely go if he really desired it. He could run fast, getting over those borders and heading somewhere that wasn't Poland. Because no one actually _wanted_ to be Polish. Not even Polish people. It was a curse, to be born in this country at this time. Everyone here won the unlucky lottery.

These sorts of thought sat frequently about Toris' brow. They wrinkled up his forehead and bent his lips and placed a certain melancholy inside his eyes.

And Feliks picked up on it, as he always did with such things. His attention to detail was preposterous.

"Toris, what's the matter with you?"

It was closing time, as it always was when either of them was to have a serous conversation. Following suit, Feliks was smoking. It was what he did best- aside from sewing.

A great mess of recycled cloud rose from those lips and into the ceiling.

"Honestly, you've been so damn sad looking. And you haven't been speaking to me. Did I do something to make you angry?"

"No- it's nothing you did. I'm just bothered by the state of things."

"Oh well, don't let those things bother you. You're at least doing something to resist it. So many people are willing to curl up beneath their mats and blankets and pretend that there's nothing going on outside- that people aren't going missing and Poland still belongs to the Polish." Puff. "Please. That's not even close to being reality. And honestly, I would expect you to be happy. At least, happier than those who are willing to do absolutely _nothing_. You're being productive, Toris. You should be proud."

Pause.

"They took Elizaveta away."

"I know…I've seen her husband come around at least once a week and glance inside my window. It's almost like he thinks she'll just come out of the shop, give him a big sloppy kiss and say, 'only kidding Dear. I just wanted to see how much you really cared for me.' Even though he knows it's not going to happen." Inhale. The tip of the cigarette burned red. "This is the tragedy, of the world we live in; things like what happen every single day. I'm beginning to wonder if they're not just going to lock us all up. Then again, some people are just doomed."

A sigh.

"Listen Toris, you shouldn't let these things bother you too long, truly. We're all playing a game of survival. And while it's alright to lose your mind over it sometimes, well…You still have to be strong most of the time. Not only for yourself, but for them too. A lot of people are depending on you and me, Toris. You've even seen each of their names."

"You're right. But it's too difficult sometimes."

"Of course it is. That's life, Kid." A drag taken. "Do you want a day off this week? An extra one. I've been working you hard."

"It would be nice, if I'm being perfectly honest."

"Well, then take one. Don't come into work tomorrow. Don't even think of this place. Just take your freedom and go do something fun."

"Thank you, Feliks."

"Of course."

The man finished his tobacco and actually had the decency to throw it away that time. As the butt fell into the waste paper basket, Toris' little heart floated into the roof.

But then it came back.

So Toris could vomit up a question.

"Feliks, why don't you leave Poland?" They regarded one another with a sort of curiosity. "You obviously have the resources. And you're such a good designer, you could do well anywhere. So why stay?"

"Let me ask you a question, Toris. Are there still Jews in Poland?"

"Yes, there are."

"Well, there you go."

"But Feliks, there's always going to be Jews in Poland."

"Then I guess I'm never leaving. Not as long as the Nazis are here, anyway." A small silence and winding gears. "I can't possibly leave, knowing that there are people being systematically destroyed when I can help them. I don't have any reason to run, not any _real_ reason. Sure, it's frightening right now. And those goddamn Germans turned this country inside out. But I'm not Jewish. And I'm not a gypsy. No one can prove I'm a homosexual. Therefore, I have no right to go running away. How can I when people far less fortunate than I am have decided to stay, or don't even have a choice? Me running…That's like letting them win."

Toris couldn't say a word. His tongue had twisted itself into a knot.

"Well, I'm going home now, Toris. I really hope you enjoy your day off. You deserve it."

"Thank you, Feliks. You deserve a day off as well."

The Polish man laughed. "That's cute, Toris. Have a nice evening."

Feliks disappeared into the basement and after a minute or so, Toris went home.


	17. Chapter 17

That morning was glorious. Toris wasn't required to rise early and soak in a cool shower. He didn't need to pick out his work clothes. He didn't have to do anything.

But what he did do was lie beneath those old sheets like a goddamn corpse. No part of him moved. No limbs had the compulsion to throw themselves out of bed and into action.

Oh, God no.

The Lithuanian was entirely content to _just_ lie there. To laze about and do nothing in particular. For the first few hours of that morning, the only thing the immigrant had accomplished was observe that ugly stain on his ceiling. And it didn't even look all that ugly today.

Toris finally got out of bed at ten thirty. Not six-thirty as he usually did on week days. Then that light brown hair was brushed through, tied back and the man was dressed.

Another perk of this happy twenty-four hour break was that the air had been warm. Toris didn't open his eyes to an apartment that had the feel of winter. No! His body was coded in a ray of window-shaped sunlight and it was fucking amazing.

The orange juice tasted better. The toast tasted better.

It was a yes sort of day.

So the Lithuanian enjoyed his breakfast and went outside, entirely ignoring the oppression that laced the whole city. The grey tone of the buildings was not focused on, nor the shit brown mud that covered the sidewalks. Instead, the blue of the sky was drunk up like fresh spring water and the yellow of the sun like fresh lemonade.

It was the sort of day that would play out as a children's movie. Everything was joyous and bubbly, and hell, even inanimate objects sang pretty songs about buttercups and sunshine and all the other happy shit you can possibly shove into a three minute tune.

It wasn't very realistic. And yes, Toris did look like a moron, nearly skipping through a town of people wearing perpetual scowls. But he didn't give a damn. He was doing just as Feliks directed him.

Toris wasn't going to think of the shop, of the customers, or the poor Jews he seemed to be saving on a daily basis. He wasn't going to think about the death and gun-shots. He wasn't going to think of those bastard Nazis and their ligament tearing presence. He wasn't going to think of _any_ of it.

Today, Toris was going to be blissfully ignorant.

Today, Toris would make a wonderful little dream land of this prison titled Warsaw and he was going to have the time of his goddamn life when doing so.

So he took himself to lunch and sucked down a bowl of delicious soup, drinking an enormous glass of milk and chasing it all down with a few bits of chocolate.

He rarely ever treated himself this way. Most of Toris' days consisted of a scant breakfast and a scant lunch (if he even had the time to eat in the afternoon) and a scant dinner. Although he had been earning quite a bit more working at Feliks' side, he was still frugal.

The Lithuanian had silly dreams of purchasing a house one day. Perhaps even getting married and having a few little children that could speak both Lithuanian and Polish. That was the reason he crammed himself into such a crappy little apartment, with a moody water heater and a bed that could easily be a few decades old. He could afford to live better. But living better put him even further away from that sunny home with a pretty wife and a few adorable children. If he could suffer now then he wouldn't have to suffer so much later.

But that fantasy of his might have been broken and tarnished by a harsh German boot.

Still, there was hope.

There would always be hope.

However, none of that ran through the man's mind. No blemish of concern was allowed to even _grace_ his flesh. He was too busy having a day full of relaxation and actual food to even touch those impossible subjects. After all, this was the only day he would get. After this, he would be forced to run back into the cell that held him, and stare the other inmates in the face.

At the end of the day, Toris lied down within a field of pretty red poppies. And relaxed. They reminded him of Feliks.

That was the only downside of his day.

There was no one to spend it with.

But it was all alright. That poor immigrant was still immensely grateful.


	18. Chapter 18

It must have been about three o' clock in the morning when Toris heard a loud popping noise floors below. He came to the window after waking up with a jolt.

The very first thing he saw was a line of people, all in uniform. Then, there was a line of poor-looking civilians standing across from them. One man was speaking loudly in German while the ones in their night clothes remained utterly silent.

It was at this point that Toris concealed himself behind a curtain, green eyes peeking out from behind battered pink material.

More was spoken in German but Toris could not make out a single one of them because of the distance he was away from the speaker and how the words were barked out as orders.

It was at that point that the gun, which had fired the previous shots, was pointed to one of those poor people and the trigger was pulled.

Immediately, the body fell limp, like the soul had spontaneously combusted and abandoned the corpse. It laid there, a dropped ragdoll and the others, two more men and a woman, took off running.

There were screams. Loud, blood curdling screams and even more gunshots.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

The prisoners or whatever they were, dropped like flies and grew deep puddles of blood beneath them. Shiny thick syrup ate away the pavement and reflected under the moonlight.

Toris felt his hand gripping at his chest, as though someone had chased him down and forced a bullet into his brain. Just watching, his heart began to beat quickly. He could feel it, his pulse inside his throat, his ears, down to his veins. Never before has the man been so very aware of his body. His toes jammed themselves into the violent floorboards beneath them, as if it would prevent his body from falling down or jolting towards the door.

His lungs were blowing up. They couldn't get enough air, but were getting too much at the very same time.

Then, very clearly he heard, "I love it when they try to run."

And those Nazi bastards laughed. They laughed like someone had told them the most wonderful joke in the entire whole and they were hearing it for the first time. Then they left the scene, probably drunk on blood lust and Aryan pride and actual wine all at once.

Toris didn't wake up at six-thirty.

You can't wake up if you haven't slept.

No wonder why Elizaveta wept.


	19. Chapter 19

Gilbert yawned from his cozy place across the street, drinking a honking cup of hot cocoa while glancing to his counterpart.

Ludwig wore a look of utter seriousness on his face. He was eating a warm croissant and had a responsible cup of coffee placed before him, as though _one_ of them had to appear serious.

They were positioned just across from Feliks' shop, and it certainly was not a coincidence.

"Jesus, Ludwig. They don't _do_ anything. That Lithuanian rat just sits there all damn day and answers the phone while the fag sews. It's like watching goldfish. They get up, walk around for maybe about two minutes, and then it's back to sitting down in the basement, or the office, or the front desk. But it doesn't fucking matter because they're not doing anything anyway!"

"Gilbert-" Ludwig sighed and took a sip of coffee. "Please, calm down. Throwing a fit is only going to draw more attention over here. You're lucky the shop keeper doesn't speak German, or else he'd probably ask you to leave."

Gilbert merely took in a gigantic breath and let it all out in an upset huff.

"Look on the bright side. We have their schedule. We know what they do all day. That's something of an accomplishment, isn't it?"

"Oh, of course. Because knowing when Feliks Łukasiewicz takes a shit is a huge discovery."

Ludwig didn't say anything.

So Gilbert slapped a few bills on the table. "Go get me some cake or something, as long as it's sweet."

"Last time I checked your legs weren't broken."

"What?"

"_Do it yourself._"

"No, _you_. I'm staying here."

Ludwig sighed. And he got up, going to the counter and buying a single slice of chocolate cake for his opposite. He kept the change, tucking it into the pocket of his coat.

The cake was on the table.

"Where the fuck is my change?"

"What change, Gilbert?"

"_You're telling me that a slice of cake costs all of the money I gave you?_ What have you been smoking lately?"

On the other side of the street, Toris and Feliks watched as Gilbert and Ludwig argued within the window, pointing at one another, pointing at them, and causing a general fuss.

"What are they even doing? If they're spying, they're not doing a very good job."

Suddenly, Gilbert's face pressed against the window of the café as though he could hear what the two were saying.

Feliks began to laugh. "They're stupid as hell, aren't they? How long have they been there?"

"Not too long. At least not at that location. I've seen Gilbert quickly walk by a couple times, so they've been watching us all day, I suppose." Toris paused. "Do they honestly think we can't see them? They're right across the street. _I _would make a better Nazi by these standards."

"I think most people would make a better Nazi, Dear." The Polish man then stepped up to the window and waved hello to the pair. Mirth came out in small doses, mostly due to the fact that Gilbert wore such a look of surprise, as though he had earnestly believed this place to be good for observation.

"Oh my god. Gilbert, I _told_ you if we can see them, they can probably see us. You just wanted a cup of cocoa."

The platinum blond did not speak a single word.

"_Gilbert._"

"_What?_"

"Let's just go."

"I'm not even finished with my drink."

"They're laughing at us."

"So what? I still have cake."

Ludwig gave up. He put his forehead into supportive palms and released exasperated air. But who could blame him? Putting up with Gilbert Weillschmidt all day certainly could be a chore.

So Ludwig and Gilbert remained as Toris and Feliks so clearly spoke about them, so the shorter of the two could finish drinking his chocolate and eat the rest of that cake.

Well, getting caught once couldn't be so bad. After all, Gilbert and Ludwig had been watching that quaint little dress shop for about a week. They did a fine job of recording the information and indeed did have either of their schedules memorized.

In truth, Gilbert had grown tired of having such a stealthy approach and earnestly craved hot cocoa. It had gotten to the point that he didn't care if they spotted him, or laughed. Hell, those two could do whatever they pleased. It wouldn't change a thing.

Weillschmidt's entire world was finger deep in fudge flavored chocolate.

Ludwig took himself too seriously anyway.

"Don't worry. We'll get them, one way or another." The plate was cleaned. The cup was emptied. "Come on. Let's get out of here. We have other things we have to attend to."

"Alright."

Toris and Feliks watched as the two left the café, shooting two quick glances in their direction. Feliks didn't seem to be intimidated; he just turned around with an amused smile and took a few steps into the dungeon. His break was over.

"Do you think we're in trouble, Feliks?"

The blond stopped walking.

"Of course not. We haven't been acting the least bit suspicious. They probably just stopped caring due to boredom."

"Well. You're probably right."

But what did Nazis need to prove? They were Nazis.

In either case, Toris went back to work.


	20. Chapter 20

"Toris, can you come over for dinner again?"

That was what he walked into. The bell chimed above his head and a question was launched at him through the barrel of a shotgun.

"Yes. I can. When did you have in mind?"

"Tomorrow night."

Tomorrow was Sunday, when the shop was closed and Toris was normally free of his manager. Although, the Lithuanian didn't mind the Feliks' presence.

And last time, the meal was delicious.

"That sound nice. Should I come over at eight again?"

"Sure." A slight smile. "You should bring some wine, if you'd like. It was a nice touch last time."

"Of course."

And they got to work shortly after that, remaining in their respective areas for the rest of that day. But the whole thing had a surreal sort of flavor to it. The day was entirely peaceful, as though the town had unanimously come to terms with something no one wanted to acknowledge. To top it all off, the sky was a strange shade of blue and grey mixed together, not entirely cloudy or sunny, but a combination involving both of them. Sunrise dyed the whole thing sherbet.

It was melt in your mouth sort of day.

Toris went home and bought a bottle of wine.

Then, he came to Feliks' home the next night, bearing his regular grin and the liquor he had promised Feliks. And the Polish man opened the door, offering a grand smell to the fantastic food and a quick embrace.

It was the oddest thing. Toris never expected a hug from Feliks. Never. He was just the sort of person who wouldn't do that. Not in the Lithuanian's head anyway.

But there were no complaints. Those arms encased Feliks' body in its whole, without any kind of ugly reservation or control. Toris embraced Feliks as though he was his greatest friend.

And he was.

"It's nice to see you again. Come inside; dinner is almost ready."

Toris was welcomed home.

He landed at the kitchen table while Feliks tended to what was waiting in the stove. There was an enormous pot of soup sitting on one of the burners, steam rising to the top of ceiling and disappearing. In the oven, a loaf of bread in a shiny metal pan sat directly in the center, looking just as delicious as the entire room smelled.

The guest felt even hungrier than he had before hand.

"How was the trip over, Toris?"

"It was fine. It's a nice evening." Pause. "Did dinner take long to prepare?"

"Oh, no. It was easy." The spoon rested against the side of the pot and Feliks shifted those pretty green eyes to the one at his table. "You're dressed nicely."

He was. Toris came in a clean, white button down shirt and a pair of black pants that had been ironed right before they were put on.

Of course, Toris normally looked nice. But this evening, he looked _especially_ nice.

The admiration was caught within those sharp emeralds. But before Toris could eat all of it up, the Polish man turned away. Sight landed directly into soup.

"Thank you. But I didn't put much effort into it. I honestly just looked inside my closet for a few minutes and picked an outfit. You're dressed much nicer than I am."

But that was a constant.

"Oh, Toris. Just shut up." Feliks pulled two bowls from a cupboard and placed them onto the counter top. "You're still too polite."

"I'm sorry."

Feliks stared a moment, a half smile strewn upon his lips.

"Never mind. I'm not sorry at all. Fuck being sorry."

Laughter, and a ladle was removed from one of the numerous drawers and poured into the bowls. "The bread will be ready soon. Would you mind pouring the milk, or the wine, I suppose. Whatever you want to drink."

"Yes, of course."

So the bowls were put onto the table and Feliks checked the bread while Toris poured two glasses of milk for either of them. And they sat down; and they began to eat.

It was wonderful, of course. But Toris didn't say so. Toris simply kept his mouth shut and sucked it all down, as though he was starving. Because in a lot of ways, he truly was.

They glanced to one another at times, and Toris began to feel somewhat strange.

There was that look again, that look of utter admiration. It was the same sort of expression a prideful mother would wear while regarding her child. Or perhaps the face of someone who genuinely adored whatever they were looking at.

But whenever Toris noticed it, Feliks buried it beneath a mountain of soot.

"Would you mind if I asked you a personal question, Toris?"

It rang out, like the off note in a beautiful song.

"I don't see why not, Feliks. We are friends, after all."

"Well…" Cheeks hid behind blond hair and gaze flicked around the room. "Are you a communist? I won't tell anyone if you are, but…I'm curious, honestly."

This was a strange dinner indeed.

But Toris understood why Feliks was asking here and now. Probably for the second time. No one told the real truth outside their home. Ears might as well line the walls of any given public place. Everyone could be a Gilbert or a Ludwig, who sought to eliminate all the Elizavetas of the world.

Being a communist was a defect. It was the sort of defect that gets you into a concentration camp. It was the kind of defect that earned you a grave.

"Some part of me, yes."

Feliks waited for an explanation, eyes wrought with sorry and unabashed curiosity.

"Well, when you grow up in a communist country, especially for more than twenty years, you can't just drop everything you've learned and adopt completely new ideas. That would be like burning down a building and having to rebuild it entirely. But now that I've lived somewhere else, well…I can't agree with everything a good communist would agree with. But I can't scrape all of it away. I still believe in equality for all people, regardless of race, gender, birthplace. And I can't bring myself to believe in God, especially not after seeing people get plainly executed in the streets…"

Toris remained silent a few seconds.

"I'm more of a half communist than anything."

"I see."

"We can still be friends, can't we?" A petit curve of those lips. "You're not going to disown me?"

"No, Toris. I can't possibly do that. Even if you asked me to. Besides, I thought you might have been a half communist, but you don't strike me as a whole one."

Neither said anything for a long moment.

"Can I ask you a personal question, Feliks?"

"I owe you one, don't I?"

"No, but I'm still going to ask…" Another few seconds drowned and decapitated. "Are you a homosexual?"

The room went dead silent. The soup even stopped its steam.

"Well, I suppose you could say that. Even though I haven't loved anyone, _truly loved_, in a very long time." Green met green. "You were entirely honest with me, so I should be entirely honest with you."

Toris digested everything he was hearing.

"My last assistant and I were madly in love. He was perfect and we agreed on just about everything. And like you, we worked together to get those poor Jews out of the country. But well…The Nazis came very close to figuring him out. Somewhere in all of it, he wasn't careful enough. And he told me this. And we both knew it. So I made him a pair of pants and he got the fuck out of here before they could take his life."

Feliks was picking his nails.

"About a week later, they called me in and I had to do so much lying. That I never knew he was attracted to other men; I had never got the idea that he might feel the same way towards me…And it hurt. The only thing that kept me from crying was the fact that showing those kinds of emotions would probably give me away."

A breath.

"But when I left, I hadn't wept so hard in my life. He took my heart with him, and we haven't spoken since. But, I can at least be half certain that he's alright. Probably living it up somewhere. That's what I hope anyway."

Feliks looked directly at Toris.

"Are you going to disown me?"

"Feliks, I couldn't disown you if you asked me to. But I am sorry. That's horrible…"

"Yes, it is horrible. But that's the reason why I do this- _we _do this. So these people can still keep their lives, even if it does involve losing everything. Even if their family loses something as well. I could never forgive myself, if he became one of those bodies in the streets. It makes me ill just to think about it."

Toris remained quiet.

"Would you like any more soup?"

"Yes, I would love some."


	21. Chapter 21

Ludwig and Gilbert stood outside Feliks' shop, looking inside the window. The two had just left and the door had been locked, but Gilbert came with his unofficial Fūhrer's lock breaker—a wedge and a hammer.

"Alright." The wooden block was jammed in between the door and the frame and hit with the end of the mallet.

The lock popped.

And the two went in, bearing flash lights and gloves, ready to tear the entire place in two. Either was well determined to find something. Anything at all, even something small.

"I'll take the basement, and you can have the office." Ludwig spoke quietly, with an edge of apprehension. The blond man was always careful, perhaps sometimes a little too careful. But it came in handy.

"Right. Don't go falling down the stairs."

Either took their separate paths, Ludwig going into the dungeon and clicking on the light. What he saw was what he expected to see. Fabric lining the shelves in bulk and Feliks' sewing machine poised in the center of the floor.

It seemed upset, that someone had broken into its chamber. That someone had come in and invaded its personal space. This was an offense, and Ludwig could feel it.

This was Feliks' space, as well as the machine's, down to the very floorboards. Which creaked and squealed at every step the man took.

Perhaps he shoved some Jews beneath them.

There was a possibility.

Ludwig continued his inspection.

And on the upper level, Gilbert went through all of those drawers. Paper scattered like snow falling from the sky. It landed everywhere, all over the floor. Receipts from past business endeavors. Designs of numerous gowns. Notes for reference. Years and years and years of paper scattered everywhere in the haphazard chaos.

And Gilbert didn't find anything.

The platinum haired man sighed and contemplated leaving while his foot slipped against a loose floorboard. Gilbert's boot had knocked something out of place.

So he leaned down and brushed away the stray papers, finding something of a secret compartment beneath that shiny plank of wood.

Inside it, there was a singular book, a beautiful book. Well cared for and cozy indie its crevice. And it was kidnapped from its home, ripped up from the ground like a turnip and devoured by a set of hungry eyes. Full of lust and curiosity and crimson for whatever the innards of this volume contained.

The book's spine cracked. The front cover opened.

Gilbert was met with an abundance of familiar looking names; certain he had seen at least a few of these beforehand. A bit of salvation gathered upon his tongue.

He knew it. He fucking knew it.

So the Nazi went down stairs to alert his partner, because this was all they needed.


	22. Chapter 22

Feliks returned with panic. He knew something was wrong when the door was unlocked. He knew something was wrong when he found his entire office in shambles. He knew something was wrong when he found that book missing; the book full of the names of the people he had saved.

He knew something was wrong when his sewing machine made nervous sounds, recounting the brutal search in its own language only the Polish man could understand.

So Feliks took in a deep breath. In fact, he took in numerous deep breaths. Every goddamn breath was deep. And he sat against the floor of his ruined office and smoked a cigarette with shaking hands.

Immediately, his brain went plunging into nervous thought. Consideration was coming too quickly to stop. His head rushed like hard and fast baseballs, threatening to crack open his skull and make that bright red cherry syrup come rushing out. That's what it felt like. Adrenaline replacing blood. Mouth evaporating. Because the saliva wasn't fucking wet enough. And the sweat breaking against his brow like someone had thrown him into a lake.

The ashes of his cigarette were falling onto his fine clothes and burning lovely little holes inside the fabric. Black scratches against a happy pink shirt.

Goddamn it.

He smoked another one while everything was picked up. He smoked a cigarette while the floorboard was eased back into place and he smoked a cigarette while that gorgeous fucking Lithuanian came in and gave him a polite hello.

And Feliks didn't say anything about anything. After all, he had to figure it all out for himself, whatever the hell this was. But one thing was entirely certain, and that was this isn't good. In fact, this was probably the worst thing that _could_ happen.

"Toris…I'm going to go into the basement and sew."

"Of course, Feliks. Try to have fun."

"Oh, you know it's a blast." Even his smooth lie came out with jagged edges.

Feliks sewed, but he didn't sew any gowns and he didn't sew any fine outfits. Feliks sewed a pair of pants. Somehow, he managed to calm his fingers and beat them into submission. His machine cooperated, making each stitch as perfect as possible without fault. But he still managed to work quickly, and that was the most important thing.

His head was swimming the entire time. Like a bad trip. Not for his own concern, at least not entirely, but for the one sitting at that desk probably wondering just what the hell happened to his manager.

Feliks loved Toris.

Perhaps not in a romantic sense, but in the way that a friend loves another friend. Feliks loved Toris because Feliks could not conceive doing without him. Feliks loved Toris more than he loved anyone else in his life right now, and therefore, Toris was given a place within his mind at this moment, a moment where all other people would only consider themselves.

And the blond knew that his assistant would be arrested as well. Locked up for questioning and probably tortured, while he was sent away to die within a concentration camp. To starve to death and have his dilapidated corpse soaked in thick, cakey mud with his golden hair missing.

They had reached the end of the line.

So he sewed. He sewed and sewed and sewed and sewed for four hours straight, only stopping for a smoke break and then he sewed another four.

These trousers were meant for someone else. They were meant for an old Jewish man and his family. At least, that's who they were supposed to be meant for. But Feliks couldn't bear the thought of his greatest friend being locked away and beaten, for the sake of information. Yes, Toris was an incredible liar, as well as unbelievably loyal. But there was only so much whipping a human could take before the truth came sputtering out. Word vomit after gut-wrenching pain and bloody wails.

So these trousers would be for him. Because Toris was in much greater danger than that poor old Jewish man.

Feliks tried so goddamn hard not to cry. Because then that ludicrous half-communist would hear him and come rushing down those stairs, demanding what was wrong.

He couldn't lie to him.

Eventually, the end of the day came, and because the manger didn't come up, Toris went down.

"Is everything alright, Feliks?" That sweet voice rained down like angelic nectar from God. It made the sore spot within Feliks' throat all the more sore. Toris was heart break.

But luckily, the pants were finished. That was all that mattered. Not the fact that Feliks' hands were aching. Not the fact that his core was heavy as an anvil that clung to his feet. Not the fact that tears came genuinely close to spilling all over his face. None of that. Toris would be alright. Just Toris.

"Yes, everything is fine. Please, come down here."

Feet descended the stairs and the two faced one another. The heart break within Feliks' face was so evident, it could not be hidden. To store this away was like hiding an elephant beneath a tattered rug. It wasn't happening.

"Feliks-"

"Don't. Just don't, Toris. You can't ask me what's wrong."

I'll break down. Like a two year old.

Really.

"Please, come here."

So the Lithuanian took careful steps towards his counterpart, immediately receiving an embrace. It was hungry and desperate and sad. So very sad.

"Feliks-"

"What did I just say to you?" Those arms were squeezing tightly; Feliks did not want to let go.

And then, their lips met, in the way that a parent would kiss a child. Or a little girl would kiss something very precious to her. But before any of this could register within Toris' mind, the garment was shoved into his arms and the teary eyed Polish man was pressing those lips against his cheek.

"Get the fuck out of here."

"Alright, Feliks." Lips shaped a stamp against the other's washed out expression. "I'll get the fuck out."

It was at that point that Toris left the store and Feliks wept, as he had wept when his first assistant was forced away from Poland. His heart imploded. And all that was left had been the wreckage of something golden and beautiful. A pretty phoenix crumpling into ash, but never to rise again.


	23. Chapter 23

Toris, for quite a long time wondered why exactly Feliks had asked him to leave. To think that this was his resignation was a hard truth to swallow. The lump in anyone's throat that produced tears.

He didn't pack his things.

He didn't even know why he being asked to leave. But Toris did come by, at closing time the next day, to possibly get some sense out of his friend.

The door chimed above his head.

And Feliks, who was just beginning to close up shop, glared in a surprised rage.

"Toris! What the hell are you doing back here? I told you to go!" The fiery blond marched forward, standing directly in front of his Lithuanian companion. "You have to leave-"

"But Feliks, why? And if you are going to make me go, well…I only wanted to say good-bye first."

"We said good-bye yesterday! You shouldn't be here!"

"But Feliks, _why not?_"

And then, so suddenly, the room grew deathly silent. The bell above the porthole rang out- as solemnly as a church bell during a funeral. It punched either of them right in the gut, and immediately, the two regarded their unwelcome company.

There was Roderich, Gilbert and Ludwig, all finely dressed in their nicely pressed uniforms and making something of a wall before the opening. No one was coming in. No one was going out.

They were ordered from most excited to most worn, with Ludwig in the middle. There was Gilbert at the right, who looked as though this was the best part of his evening. Then, on the very left, there was Roderich, who wore depression easily as flesh.

Elizaveta, wherever she was, had torn out his heart and taken it with her. The woman didn't even have the decency to leave a single chamber to her husband. She grabbed the whole goddamn thing and uprooted it without even a thought of mercy. His once handsome blue eyes had gone unkempt and withered. Two neglected roses in a starving garden. The entirety of him was sleep ridden.

Roderich wore an apology.

"Feliks." Gilbert took one step forward. Those shiny leather boots squealing in excitement. "I'm going to need you to come with us."

The words came like fire in the hallows of winter.

"For the crime of assisting Jews over the border, or should I say _borders. _Almost every name in that book of yours was an employee in your factory at one point, with a few exceptions of course. And it all makes sense, their disappearance dates with the drops in your bank account. Lying won't get you anywhere now."

A stillness.

An eerie quiet that gripped everyone by the ankles and shook them hard.

But then, with badly shaking hands, Feliks lit a cigarette. "You know- I wondered why it took you assholes so long. I think when Hitler said he wanted a race of people with blond hair and blue eyes he didn't quite mean that you should start inbreeding." Exhaled smoke. "The lot of you makes me sick."

Silence.

"How do you live with yourselves? Killing others because they're different, because you _think_ you're better than they are. And then you send them off to camps-and prison, to do work you're all too lazy to do yourselves."

Puff.

"You're all going to rot in hell."

"That's all well and good, but we're still going to need you to come with us, Mr. Łukasiewicz. We may rot in hell, but where you're going is far worse. Now, come quietly."

A long drag upon the tobacco smoking before Feliks' mouth. Lips bunched up in a kind of disgust. "No. If I'm coming, it's not going to be quietly. Fuck all of you. Fuck you and fuck Germany. Fuck Prussia. Fuck Austria, and Fuck Hitler. All of you can kiss my Polish ass."

Gilbert began laughing. It was deep and maniacal and frightening as hell.

"Well, Feliks. I have to hand it to you, you've got balls." A silver gun was removed from the Nazi's belt buckle, and cocked, then looked over by a pair of harsh scarlet eyes. "Unfortunately, balls don't really get you anywhere in this situation. I'm going to throw you in the back of my pretty black truck, whether you're dead with balls or alive with balls. So which one is it going to be?" The tip of the barrel was pointed directly toward the Polish man, who just stood there, smoking.

A good number of seconds passed, and with each one, Toris could feel his heart beating louder inside his ears. Popping with every pulse.

"I'm useless to you dead. You wouldn't waste your time, throwing me in the back of your 'pretty black truck', with blood leaking all over the floor, and your hands, and those ugly uniforms of yours. So I choose death."

Feliks made a few quick steps, towards the basement, and in all of a few seconds, Gilbert shot his gun three times.

One bullet ate Feliks' shoulder.

Another, his hip.

The last went directly through the back of his head.

He hit the ground bleeding.

"Feliks!" Toris couldn't help but scream. Scream and scream and scream while those bastards stood there, regarding their handiwork.

Blond hair was in a mess about the floorboards, a pool of crimson soaking up the tips and ruining those beautiful clothes. Ruining everything. Ruining Feliks.

An entire person had been shot out of existence. They pulled the trigger and he was gone.

Toris hit the floor with a thud, panicking, shouting, watching through teary eyes as his companion lost every damn drop of blood through a limp body.

"_Feliks! Feliks!_"

Then Gilbert pulled Toris up by the roots of his hair. "Shut your fucking mouth, Kid! You were involved with this too, weren't you?!"

"_Feliks!_"

The handle of the pistol smacked Toris right against the head, knocking him back down, only causing more agonized cries of shock and sorrow to come pouring.

"Gilbert, stop it!" Roderich spoke up from the door. "Toris didn't know anything about this! Did you?"

"No-" Gasp. "No- I didn't know anything at all- He never told me- I never-"

"Let's just go. You've already fucked this up by shooting Łukasiewicz. Whatever information we were going to get it dead and bleeding out on the floor."

The gun was put away, back into its place along Gilbert's belt. "Alright. Let's go. He was right about one thing; I sure as hell ain't picking him up."

And all three of them left, the only one bothering to look back being Roderich. Whatever was left of him had died. He was sorry, and the Lithuanian stared at him, trying to sputter out a thank you, but too terrified to even stand. To even force his lips to movement. To even be fully aware of what the hell just happened.

That night, Toris did not leave Feliks' corpse. He was far too shaken to go outside and far too loyal to leave his companion, even in death.

The body was turned, so those gone green eyes looked up at the ceiling, and Toris cleaned the blood from his face, hysterical. The entire time through. But he remained, because it was the only thing he could do.


	24. Chapter 24

Somehow, morning came. And Toris still hadn't left. It seemed wrong to leave Feliks, and walking away actually meant accepting the truth, something Toris couldn't quite bring himself to do-almost as though this beautiful body of his might manage to bring himself back and say in a clever way-

'Oh Toris, you didn't actually believe they got me, did you? You're so silly.'

Then he would light a cigarette and ho down stairs, to sew another gown or a pair of trousers.

But the reality of this situation was that Feliks had died.

Toris stood up, his sore limbs creaking and popping, and he lifted Feliks from the floor; his body was heavy, like carrying a sack of stones.

And the Lithuanian walked outside into the street, where everyone could see them, and began to march forward.

The entire town had grown suddenly still. Everyone stopped what they were doing to glance up in Toris' direction to see the dead Łukasiewicz and his loyal friend, heading toward the field of flowers that so many of them had seen.

No one spoke. Because they all knew him, either as the charismatic dressmaker or the savoir of Jews, gypsies and homosexuals alike.

A few even began to follow Toris, as he carried that body. Some of them were Jewish and others were merely town's people. And all of them had lost something.

One man took Feliks' shoulders, relieving some of the weight from Toris' arms. And they walked. The sun shone down through the clouds and they walked. The wind picked up a bit and they walked.

They walked until a full crowd had begun to follow, either out of curiosity or simply concern for a dead companion.

And still, the whole town was silent.

And they came to the field of pretty red poppies, to lay Feliks Łukasiewicz upon its surface. The petals lapped at his flesh, making those hideous red stains a little less hideous and the man's beautiful face a little more beautiful.

There was no love too great for him. Toris knew this as he glanced at his dear friend's body, feeling a mixture between adoration and agony. The Nazis didn't know what they had done. Not to Feliks Łukasiewicz and not to Poland. They had taken a life that was worth so much more than one, but had reminded everyone who played witness why it was crucial to continue fighting.

For Toris and Feliks, it was over. It ended in a field of flowers with blood soaked into its scalp and clothing. But the rest of Poland would carry on. The part that hadn't been shot dead. The part that was willing to tell Herr Hitler to kiss its Polish ass.

A hole was made. And Feliks was buried while everyone watched, no sound rising up to mar the respect. Some cried. Some just looked onward, and others returned. Before some unkind Nazi came to arrest every single one of them.

Eventually, everyone departed, all accept for Toris, who in some strange delusion was still waiting for Feliks to rise up out of the dirt and the flowers and tell him it was a trick.

'I was just tested your loyalty.

'You're so silly.'

But it didn't happen then and it didn't happen now.

So Toris said good-bye.

"Thank you, Feliks. You were an excellent friend."

And that was that.

Toris went home, with his feet numb and his heart sore and did what he should have done last night.

He packed.


	25. Epilogue

So Toris went to America. He jumped on a train and jumped on a boat and jumped onto Ellis Island without looking back. He switched his language to English and got himself a job as a butler while he looked for something better.

And as it turns out, Feliks was right.

The amount of freedom these people had was nothing short of amazing.

His boss, Alfred Jones, would walk around the house, spewing all his hatred for those _Goddamn_ Nazis and how fucking sick it all made him. How he didn't understand how _anyone_ could fallow such a _lunatic _and revere him as some sort of saint. He did all this while tearing out his pretty blond hair and allowing those glassy blue eyes to flare up, as though those qualities didn't matter anymore than Toris' light brown hair and lime green gaze.

One day, Alfred got Toris to tell him about where he had come from and what he had seen there and what it was like. And the entire time, the American sat and listened, wearing surprise in some portions and disgust in others. Even remorse when Toris told him the whole and honest truth about Feliks Łukasiewicz.

And when he had finished speaking, Mr. Jones merely nodded.

"That's why we have to kill those Nazi bastards. That's why we have to kill them dead."

It made Toris smile.

And life moved forward and the war was over. When it was alright to be Jewish again, Toris decided to go back to his side of the world. To the eastern European side. Alfred wished him the best of luck and said a sad goodbye. But either of them understood. Things weren't necessarily at peace, but times had improved and it was safe to return to Poland. It was where Toris belonged- even if a grand piece of it was still in turmoil. So, he went back, after tasting America and arrived in Warsaw. After hopping off Ellis Island and back onto a boat and back onto a train.

And he found his companion's grave, which had been given a real tombstone, and was soaked in strange, corroding treasures. Beads and statues and even a package of cigarettes, all colorful and grateful and even happy.

Toris left a few American coins and offered smile, happy to have known such a man.


End file.
